Doctor Who fic: The Boy Who Waited (12/49)
Title: The Boy Who Waited (12/49)
Rating: PG
Characters: Rory, with appearances from Barbara
Timeline: set between "The Pandorica Opens" and "The Big Bang"
Summary: London, 1996. Barbara Wright prepares the Pandorica for exhibit at the National Museum. As the work unfolds, she recounts the lengthy history of the stone box and its loyal protector, the Lone Centurion.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. Everything else is me taking liberties with history.
A/N: A huge thank you to my beta punch_kicker15. This story would still be sitting on my hard drive if it weren't for you.
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Camadi, 1272 A.D.
“Marco!”
Niccolò’s cry carried to Rory and he looked up from the body at his feet. The bandit had sprung out of the darkness, seemingly from out of nowhere. He hadn’t meant to kill the man, but the bandit had fought madly and only Rory’s sword had ended the attack. The loss of life was regrettable, and now he wished he had only wounded the bandit. Something told him there were a lot of questions waiting and only the bandit would have known the answers.
He sheathed his sword and picked up the body. He hoped the Polo brothers were well travelled enough to identify the bandit.
They had camped for the night near the ruins of a walled city, Camadi, as the locals called it. Rory had been patrolling the perimeter when the attack came. It made him wonder if this had been organized. He was obviously the defender of the group and by keeping him occupied it would have left an opening for other bandits to attack the Polos. Combined with a thoroughly dark night, Rory could scarcely see the path before him; conditions were ripe for a surprise raid.
Rory heard the Polos before he saw them. He had never heard the brothers exchange a single negative word, so it was strange to hear them in an argument. Even stranger still, it was level headed Niccolò who was doing all the yelling.
The man’s earlier cry for his son took on a whole new light.
Dropping the bandit’s body next to the small camp fire, Rory rushed over to the pair. Marco was nowhere to be seen. “What happened?” he demanded.
“They took Marco!” exclaimed Niccolò. His eyes were rimmed with red from unshed tears, but his expression was far from despondent. His entire body was tense with anger and he approached Rory menacingly. “Where were you?” The man looked ready to knock Rory to the ground.
“I was attacked,” said Rory, keeping his tone calm. There was nothing anyone could have done. It was just easier for Niccolò to target his fury at someone. “I think this was planned.”
“Niccolò.” Maffeo placed a restraining hand on his brother’s arm. “This was not the Centurion’s fault.”
The older Polo struggled with his emotions. He looked like he wanted to stay angry but it was obvious his thoughts were also on his missing son. He took a couple of deep breaths before turning away from Rory. The man stalked off, but he didn’t go far. He went back to the camp fire and sat down dejectedly on his bed roll.
“Tell me what happened,” Rory said to Maffeo.
The younger Polo ran his hands through his dishevelled locks. “We were asleep when it happened. We only woke when Marco cried out. There were six men, all armed. They were like shadows, moving without any noise. When they fled, it seemed like they melted back into the darkness. I might have thought it a dream if not for Marco’s disappearance.”
Maffeo’s story sounded similar to Rory’s experience. These bandits knew the territory then if they could move about in absolute darkness without any trouble. “If they had wanted to kill Marco, they would have done so at the camp. They took him because they need him for something. That means he is still alive.”
Maffeo nodded his head. Had his mind been clearer, he would have thought of this himself. He glanced back at his brother. “Do not be angry with Niccolò. Marco’s mother died while we were travelling. Marco is all he has left of her. He would give up everything to see his son safe and well.”
Rory stared wide-eyed at Maffeo. “I-I did not know.” Marco hadn’t mentioned any of this during their conversations, but it wasn’t exactly a topic for people who barely knew each other. “Pack up camp and get ready to leave.” He offered nothing else to Maffeo and instead joined Niccolò at the fire. The elder Polo poked at the embers with a stick, but he stared blankly into the flames, like his mind was completely detached from his body. He didn’t even look up when Rory sat down next to him.
They stayed like that for a moment or two before Rory spoke. “I am sorry. I should have stayed closer to camp.”
Niccolò thrust the stick into the fire and left it there to burn. “It is I who should be apologizing, Centurion. We should have made camp in the village we passed, but I was eager to push on. Now Marco is being punished for my misdeeds.”
“This is not your fault, Niccolò. These bandits would have attacked us sooner or later.” As a caravan they weren’t hard to miss. To the average bandit, the covered bulk of the Pandorica represented untold riches.
“Centurion, I have not asked much of you, but I will now ask you this.” Niccolò paused and looked up at Rory with a beseeching gaze. “Please find my son. He is the only thing I truly treasure in this world.”
Rory had no troubles understanding where Niccolò was coming from. He knew full well what it felt like to lose a loved one. No one had to die today. “Niccolò Polo, I promise you, I will rescue your son.”
They rode back to the small walled village they had passed some miles back. The night remained impenetrable and they were forced to light torches to find their way. Rory thought it was fog, but he had never seen fog like this. It was so heavy and thick, like he could reach out and snatch a handful of it. The air was hot, but dry, like he had swallowed a mouthful of sand. It didn’t seem right at all and they rode faster because of it.
When they reached the village it was completely dark. Maffeo parked the wagon in the centre of the village while Rory went to pound on the wall of the first house he saw. No one answered, but he knew there were people inside. He heard them shuffling about and whispering to each other in scared voices. He moved onto the next house and the next until finally he just went to the centre of the village and started shouting at the top of his lungs. He didn’t speak their language but his tone made it fairly obvious that he was demanding an audience.
A door flap was finally thrown back in one of the houses and a middle aged man with a flaming torch stepped out. He looked around before speaking to someone inside the house. A moment later, an elderly man exited and, together with the man with the torch, he started towards Rory. He was one of the village elders. Rory recognized his white wispy hair and weathered, leathery skin.
Niccolò and Maffeo had done all of the talking last time they were here and Rory looked to them now to translate.
“I am sorry for waking you,” said Rory, Niccolò translating for him, “but this is urgent.”
The elder spoke fiercely and Maffeo repeated the words in Italian. “You will bring down the Caraonas down upon us.” The younger Polo frowned. “I do not recognize the term,” he said to his travelling companions.
“What is Caraonas?”
“A plight. You have summoned them with your cursed relic.” The elder pointed a trembling finger at the Pandorica.
Rory held back a sigh. He decided to cut to the chase. “Please, we need your help. A group of bandits took one of our party. Do you know where we could find them?” Rory’s words were imbued with a touch more emotion as Niccolò spoke for him.
“You summon the Caraonas and the Caraonas descend. They bring darkness and death. There is no hope for you.”
Niccolò balled his hands into fists and took a step forward. The man with the torch, large and muscular, took a step forward as well and he raised the torch menacingly. “Niccolò, wait.” The elder Polo didn’t relax, but he did take a reluctant step backwards. Rory waited until the man had regained his senses before speaking again. “These Caraonas are the bandits?”
The elder didn’t reply. It seemed he was refusing to give an answer. The man with the torch, possibly the elder’s son, spoke instead. “Yes.”
It seemed odd that the man would speak when the elder would not, but Rory figured he wanted them out of the village as quickly as possible. If that meant giving them information that led to their deaths, he seemed all right with that.
“Where can we find them?” The man with the torch hesitated. Rory could guess what he was thinking. If they were captured by the bandits and forced to talk, then any information would lead the bandits back to the village. “Please, they took my friend’s son.” Rory wasn’t sure how Niccolò translated his words, but it seemed to strike a chord with the man.
He spoke hurriedly to the elder and the old man nodded his head as he listened. Once the man finished, the elder looked grim but he nodded one more time.
“The bandits reside near a town called Conosalmi,” said the man with the torch. “It is less than a day’s ride south of here. If you leave now, you will reach it by sunrise.”
“Thank you-” began Rory, but Niccolò never got the chance to translate his words.
“If you return to our village, we will kill you. Go, take your unholy object and may we never see your likeness again.” The man and the elder turned and walked back to their home. Rory stood dumbfounded along with the Polos.
“Why did they not mention these bandits when we were first here?” snarled Niccolò.
“Because they are scared,” said Rory. The man had put on a tough act, but there had been a slight tremble in his voice. It had not been an idle threat but that didn’t mean the man wanted to hurt them. “They are only trying to protect what is theirs. They are no different than us.”
“Shall we follow their instructions?” asked Maffeo. He had already climbed up onto the wagon and now picked up the reins.
“What other choice do we have?” Niccolò said bitterly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed heavily, no doubt trying to clear a lump from his throat.
“We ride south then,” said Rory. And hope we’re not too late, he added silently in his head.
The settlement was a warren of crude houses. Rory wouldn’t have called it a town, per se. It seemed more like barracks, a place for soldiers to sleep and eat until their next battle. The bandits weren’t attached to these houses. He could easily imagine them just packing up their loot and riding off, ready to terrorize another part of the region.
“Can you see Macro?” whispered Niccolò.
From their position on a nearby ridge, they could see into the settlement, but they were too far away to make out much of the details. Even Rory, with his superior eyesight, could barely make out the individual faces of the bandits. They all looked the same, really. They were all dressed in long robes and had their heads covered to keep them warm and to protect their faces from the rays of the sun. If there was a leader among them, he wasn’t outside.
The same applied to Marco. There weren’t any cages that Rory could see, which meant the youngest Polo might have been inside one of the buildings. It was impossible to tell which one though. Every man was armed with a sword and there were a few buildings with bandits standing guard outside. Storm the wrong house and they could end up with loot, not Marco.
“I cannot see him, but we are too far away. We need to get inside.” A crude mud wall surrounded the settlement. It wasn’t impossible to breech, but it would make the task harder.
“Let us leave then.” Niccolò jumped to his feet.
“Niccolò.” Rory grabbed him by the coat and pulled him back down. “We cannot afford to be reckless.” The man began to protest and Rory tightened his grip. “We need a plan.”
Unfortunately, Rory didn’t have one. He had gotten them here, but now he wasn’t sure what to do next. He didn’t want to do anything that would endanger Marco’s life. Niccolò was usually the man with a plan, but his fears for Marco were clouding his head.
Being in charge was not one of Rory’s strong suits. He was good at following orders but he had never liked giving them. It was part of the reason he loved Amy so much. She spoke her mind without any fear and she always knew what she wanted. He had to admire that. Amy also shared that trait with the Doctor. The Time Lord always had a plan. He was always ten steps ahead of the enemy. If he had been here now, he’d have a rousing speech ready to go and roles for everyone to perform.
Neither Amy nor the Doctor were here, though. Rory could have used their help. Three men were not enough to take on an army of bandits.
So maybe there was no point trying…
He should have kept his armour on. He was totally uncomfortable without it.
Rory kept his head down as he wandered through the settlement. He had no choice but to remove the bulkier parts of his centurion outfit; they were too conspicuous. The bronze chest plate, wrist guards, leg guards, and helmet were back with the wagon. He still wore the leather tunic, but the leather skirt was gone. Over top, he had thrown on the robe of the dead bandit and he also wore the man’s turban. He looked like a very bad imitation of Indiana Jones from Raiders of the Lost Ark.
“They’re digging in the wrong place,” he muttered in English as he walked on.
He had waited until the sun began to set to scale the mud wall. There were long shadows to hide in but still enough light to see by. Just in case, Rory had smeared mud all over his face to lessen how pale he was compared to everyone else. He felt like a commando behind enemy lines.
So far, no one had stopped him. Sneaking around was far better than trying a frontal attack, though it had taken some time to convince Niccolò that this was the best approach. The man wanted to be more involved in the rescue of his son and Rory couldn’t blame him. But he had to be the one to go inside the bandit settlement, not the Polos. He had fighting experience and, unbeknownst to the two travellers, he couldn’t be hurt. Well, he could be hurt, but it wouldn’t slow him down too much if he was.
Rory paused outside the last guarded house. The others had all contained the belongings and objects the bandits had looted. If Marco wasn’t in this house, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. It would take too long to search the rest of the buildings and the longer he stayed in the settlement, the greater the chance of his discovery.
There was no window to peek through, but he didn’t need a window. He just closed his eyes and concentrated. Over the years, he found he had really good hearing if he made an effort to listen. It was a strange quality to have for a plastic robot, but it came in handy.
Like now, for instance. He picked up not one, but a handful heartbeats inside the house. They were frantic, but steady.
Rory opened his eyes and mouthed a curse. He hadn’t been expecting any more prisoners beyond Marco. This definitely put a wrinkle in his plan. Two people could leave the settlement without detection, but an entire group was another story. If he didn’t want to leave any of the other prisoners behind, and he wasn’t about to do that, then this rescue was going to be a lot more chaotic than he had envisioned.
The sun was gone overheard, leaving only the vestige of a lit sky. If the bandits could use darkness to strike, why couldn’t he?
He waited until it was completely dark. Rory had hoped there would be a change of guard, but no such luck. These poor fellows were stuck here while the rest of the bandits drank and ate. At least some of the other bandits were occupied with supper. He had that in his favour.
With his turban nearly pulled down over his eyes, he approached the two guards. They really didn’t seem to care that one of their own was stopping by. One said something in an unknown language, a greeting probably, but Rory paid it no attention. He was too busy gauging the guards’ behaviour. When he was close enough, and no one shouted angrily, he struck.
He unleashed a powerful punch to the jaw of the guard to his right. The blow, fuelled by his unnatural strength, snapped the guard’s head to the left. The bandit didn’t even have time to grunt as he stumbled and fell to the ground. The other guard had started to reach for his sword, but he was too slow. Rory pulled his own dagger free and shoved the guard back against the outside of the house with his free hand. He put the tip of the dagger to the man’s throat.
“You probably don’t understand a word I’m saying,” Rory said in English, “but shout out and you’re dead. Got that?” He applied just the slightest of pressure and the tip of his dagger nicked the skin of the man’s throat. The man didn’t say anything in response.
Taking that as a sign of compliance, Rory threw open the door of the house and pushed the guard inside. It was too dark to see inside, but he heard gasps. “Marco. Are you there?” he asked in Italian.
“Yes!” The voice that replied was full of relief. “Centurion, is that you?”
“It is me. How many are with you?”
“Five others.”
“Are any of them injured?”
“No, not from what I could see.”
“Okay, that’s good,” Rory said to himself in English. If everyone could run, they still had a chance. “Are you bound?” he asked, switching back to Italian.
“No.”
Better and better. Rory spun the guard around so they faced each other. “Sorry about this,” he said in English. He drove his fist into the man’s chin and when he doubled over, Rory delivered another blow to his temple. The man fall over like a cut tree and he landed with a thump in the dirt.
“Time to go.” Rory urgently motioned to the open door. He felt six people rush past him. Once they were all out, he stepped outside and dragged the other unconscious guard inside the house. The two guards would wake up, but hopefully they would be long gone by then.
Back outside, he caught his first glimpse of the prisoners. He couldn’t see much besides their basic outlines. If he had a night vision mode, he didn’t know about it. What they really needed was a torch to light the way. He would have given anything for a modern one right now. Instead of wasting time wishing for things that wouldn’t be invented for hundreds of years, Rory settled for going back the way he came. He kept the group clustered tightly together as they ran. The route was laid out in his mind, but that had been before the bandits had settled for supper. He had no clue where people were positioned anymore.
The glow of a fire came from the centre of the settlement and he made sure their path didn’t stray too close. If he heard voices, he motioned for the prisoners to pause and wait. Now that his vision had adapted to the darkness, he could see that the group was made up of young men and women. It made sense. Younger people made better workers.
After a couple of twists and turn to avoid some roaming bandits, they made it to the outer wall. It didn’t look like where Rory had entered, but he would take what he could get.
“Up and over,” he said to Marco. He laced his hands together, providing a step so he could boast the young man to the top of the wall.
Marco placed his foot in Rory’s cradled hands and then nodded his head. Rory easily lifted him up and held him there as Marco found a secure grip around the edge of the wall. Once he had a firm grip, he climbed up the rest of the wall and then dropped out of sight over the other side. There was a dull thump and then Marco quietly called out, “All is well.”
Rory mimed the move again, hoping the other prisoners would understand. One young man seemed to get it and he placed his foot in Rory’s hand. One by one, he boosted them up the wall until he was the only one left. Then he was left with an obvious question.
How was he going to get over the wall?
He tried jumping up but as powerful as his legs were, he couldn’t get high enough to grasp the wall’s edge. “Marco!” he hissed.
“Yes, Centurion?”
“Your father and uncle are waiting on top of a nearby ridge to the west. Take the other prisoners and go.”
“What about you? I will not leave you behind.” Marco wasn’t just being stubborn. He was being honourable.
“I will be fine. Just go!” Rory didn’t stick around. He ran along the wall, looking for anything that he could use as a step or a ladder. He started to consider just hacking his way through the mud wall with his sword when he heard the rustle of cloth behind him. He turned, but it was too late.
A bandit rushed him from one of the houses, his sword already drawn. The blade entered through Rory’s stomach and it was so sharp that it kept going until the tip emerged through his back. Rory gasped as pain raced through him, hot as fire. His whole body went stiff. In the dim light, he saw the bandit grin.
The sword easily slid free from his body, hardly making a sound. The bandit said something; it sounded like a boast. Rory doubled over, putting a hand to his stomach. He had never been hurt this bad before. Had he been human, he would have passed out by now from the blood loss. As it was, he was miserable, but fine.
“I hate to disappoint you,” Rory said through gritted teeth, “but I’m not dead yet.”
He straightened up to his full height, fixing the bandit with his best scowl. It still felt like he had a blade sticking out of his stomach, but he ignored the pain. The bandit blinked and his mouth fell open. He just stared at Rory, too confused and scared to run.
Rory found the strength to lift his arm for another punch. Once the bandit was out, he succumbed to the urge to fall down. He landed face first in the dirt and had to turn over to avoid breathing in a mouth of dust. For the span of several seconds, he just lay there. His hand was still over his stomach, like he was trying to keep his guts from spilling out, but, as he was painfully aware, he had no guts. There was no blood and a probing finger found just a thin gap where the sword had gone through.
He had a hole in his stomach.
With a groan, Rory sat up. He could still move. The wound wasn’t affecting the mobility of his torso. Even the pain was slowly starting to fade. Given enough time, he would be perfectly fine, albeit with a nasty gash running through him. He wasn’t sure how he was going to close this wound this time.
He got to his feet and the ground swayed beneath him. Only once had Rory been drop dead drunk and the experience was similar to what he was feeling now. His vision was slightly warped and for the life of him he couldn’t walk in a straight line. But he stumbled along anyway. He needed to leave. He had to get out. It became a mantra in his head.
It felt like he wandered for hours before some luck finally came his way. He found an empty barrel of wine outside one of the houses and, with some effort, managed to drag it back to the wall. He was slow as a snail as he climbed onto the barrel and as he reached for the top of the wall for one, long painful second, he was completely exposed. Visions of arrows and spears striking him in the back filled his head.
His boots scrapped against the mud surface of the wall, trying to find some purchase. He found just enough grip to swing his legs up and from there he simply rolled over and fell down to the other side. The pain of hitting the ground was nothing compared to what he felt when the sword went through him.
Hunched over like a cripple, Rory lurched his way back to the ridge where he left the brothers. He hoped Marco would be waiting for him by the time he got back.
“How are you feeling?”
The wagon struck another bump in the road and the shock was transferred to Rory. He grimaced. “I will live,” he said simply.
A small smile graced Marco’s face. He had escaped his ordeal with a bruise on his forehead and a minor cut on his chin. His horse kept pace with the wagon as they talked. “You are very strange, if I may say so.”
“Oh?” Rory leaned back against the Pandorica. His own horse was being guided along by Niccolò at the head of the caravan. “I am not an ordinary man.”
When he had arrived back at the wagon in the middle of the night, there had been a flurry of activity. Marco immediately noticed the gash in his armour and the Polos had rushed to get Rory patched up. He barely had a chance to get a word in and when he did, he surprised them by asking for fire. The memory of melting his plastic flesh together and the searing pain that had been involved invoked another grimace from him. The procedure had left him barely conscious and the Polos had been left with numerous questions. By some miracle, they hadn’t left him by the side of the road.
“I do not mean your…” Marco paused to search for the appropriate word. “Health. I refer to your actions. You were under no obligation to rescue me.” He was stating the obvious in that conversational way of his.
They rode along for a bit as Rory mulled this over. He hadn’t chosen to be here, but like when he had joined Amy in the TARDIS, it seemed only natural to stay. The Polos were in the midst of a massive undertaking. If Rory could help them in any way, he would. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. He’d be stupid to pass it up.
“I always come back for my friends,” Rory said with a smile.
And then the wagon hit another bump.
Rating: PG
Characters: Rory, with appearances from Barbara
Timeline: set between "The Pandorica Opens" and "The Big Bang"
Summary: London, 1996. Barbara Wright prepares the Pandorica for exhibit at the National Museum. As the work unfolds, she recounts the lengthy history of the stone box and its loyal protector, the Lone Centurion.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. Everything else is me taking liberties with history.
A/N: A huge thank you to my beta punch_kicker15. This story would still be sitting on my hard drive if it weren't for you.
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49
Camadi, 1272 A.D.
“Marco!”
Niccolò’s cry carried to Rory and he looked up from the body at his feet. The bandit had sprung out of the darkness, seemingly from out of nowhere. He hadn’t meant to kill the man, but the bandit had fought madly and only Rory’s sword had ended the attack. The loss of life was regrettable, and now he wished he had only wounded the bandit. Something told him there were a lot of questions waiting and only the bandit would have known the answers.
He sheathed his sword and picked up the body. He hoped the Polo brothers were well travelled enough to identify the bandit.
They had camped for the night near the ruins of a walled city, Camadi, as the locals called it. Rory had been patrolling the perimeter when the attack came. It made him wonder if this had been organized. He was obviously the defender of the group and by keeping him occupied it would have left an opening for other bandits to attack the Polos. Combined with a thoroughly dark night, Rory could scarcely see the path before him; conditions were ripe for a surprise raid.
Rory heard the Polos before he saw them. He had never heard the brothers exchange a single negative word, so it was strange to hear them in an argument. Even stranger still, it was level headed Niccolò who was doing all the yelling.
The man’s earlier cry for his son took on a whole new light.
Dropping the bandit’s body next to the small camp fire, Rory rushed over to the pair. Marco was nowhere to be seen. “What happened?” he demanded.
“They took Marco!” exclaimed Niccolò. His eyes were rimmed with red from unshed tears, but his expression was far from despondent. His entire body was tense with anger and he approached Rory menacingly. “Where were you?” The man looked ready to knock Rory to the ground.
“I was attacked,” said Rory, keeping his tone calm. There was nothing anyone could have done. It was just easier for Niccolò to target his fury at someone. “I think this was planned.”
“Niccolò.” Maffeo placed a restraining hand on his brother’s arm. “This was not the Centurion’s fault.”
The older Polo struggled with his emotions. He looked like he wanted to stay angry but it was obvious his thoughts were also on his missing son. He took a couple of deep breaths before turning away from Rory. The man stalked off, but he didn’t go far. He went back to the camp fire and sat down dejectedly on his bed roll.
“Tell me what happened,” Rory said to Maffeo.
The younger Polo ran his hands through his dishevelled locks. “We were asleep when it happened. We only woke when Marco cried out. There were six men, all armed. They were like shadows, moving without any noise. When they fled, it seemed like they melted back into the darkness. I might have thought it a dream if not for Marco’s disappearance.”
Maffeo’s story sounded similar to Rory’s experience. These bandits knew the territory then if they could move about in absolute darkness without any trouble. “If they had wanted to kill Marco, they would have done so at the camp. They took him because they need him for something. That means he is still alive.”
Maffeo nodded his head. Had his mind been clearer, he would have thought of this himself. He glanced back at his brother. “Do not be angry with Niccolò. Marco’s mother died while we were travelling. Marco is all he has left of her. He would give up everything to see his son safe and well.”
Rory stared wide-eyed at Maffeo. “I-I did not know.” Marco hadn’t mentioned any of this during their conversations, but it wasn’t exactly a topic for people who barely knew each other. “Pack up camp and get ready to leave.” He offered nothing else to Maffeo and instead joined Niccolò at the fire. The elder Polo poked at the embers with a stick, but he stared blankly into the flames, like his mind was completely detached from his body. He didn’t even look up when Rory sat down next to him.
They stayed like that for a moment or two before Rory spoke. “I am sorry. I should have stayed closer to camp.”
Niccolò thrust the stick into the fire and left it there to burn. “It is I who should be apologizing, Centurion. We should have made camp in the village we passed, but I was eager to push on. Now Marco is being punished for my misdeeds.”
“This is not your fault, Niccolò. These bandits would have attacked us sooner or later.” As a caravan they weren’t hard to miss. To the average bandit, the covered bulk of the Pandorica represented untold riches.
“Centurion, I have not asked much of you, but I will now ask you this.” Niccolò paused and looked up at Rory with a beseeching gaze. “Please find my son. He is the only thing I truly treasure in this world.”
Rory had no troubles understanding where Niccolò was coming from. He knew full well what it felt like to lose a loved one. No one had to die today. “Niccolò Polo, I promise you, I will rescue your son.”
They rode back to the small walled village they had passed some miles back. The night remained impenetrable and they were forced to light torches to find their way. Rory thought it was fog, but he had never seen fog like this. It was so heavy and thick, like he could reach out and snatch a handful of it. The air was hot, but dry, like he had swallowed a mouthful of sand. It didn’t seem right at all and they rode faster because of it.
When they reached the village it was completely dark. Maffeo parked the wagon in the centre of the village while Rory went to pound on the wall of the first house he saw. No one answered, but he knew there were people inside. He heard them shuffling about and whispering to each other in scared voices. He moved onto the next house and the next until finally he just went to the centre of the village and started shouting at the top of his lungs. He didn’t speak their language but his tone made it fairly obvious that he was demanding an audience.
A door flap was finally thrown back in one of the houses and a middle aged man with a flaming torch stepped out. He looked around before speaking to someone inside the house. A moment later, an elderly man exited and, together with the man with the torch, he started towards Rory. He was one of the village elders. Rory recognized his white wispy hair and weathered, leathery skin.
Niccolò and Maffeo had done all of the talking last time they were here and Rory looked to them now to translate.
“I am sorry for waking you,” said Rory, Niccolò translating for him, “but this is urgent.”
The elder spoke fiercely and Maffeo repeated the words in Italian. “You will bring down the Caraonas down upon us.” The younger Polo frowned. “I do not recognize the term,” he said to his travelling companions.
“What is Caraonas?”
“A plight. You have summoned them with your cursed relic.” The elder pointed a trembling finger at the Pandorica.
Rory held back a sigh. He decided to cut to the chase. “Please, we need your help. A group of bandits took one of our party. Do you know where we could find them?” Rory’s words were imbued with a touch more emotion as Niccolò spoke for him.
“You summon the Caraonas and the Caraonas descend. They bring darkness and death. There is no hope for you.”
Niccolò balled his hands into fists and took a step forward. The man with the torch, large and muscular, took a step forward as well and he raised the torch menacingly. “Niccolò, wait.” The elder Polo didn’t relax, but he did take a reluctant step backwards. Rory waited until the man had regained his senses before speaking again. “These Caraonas are the bandits?”
The elder didn’t reply. It seemed he was refusing to give an answer. The man with the torch, possibly the elder’s son, spoke instead. “Yes.”
It seemed odd that the man would speak when the elder would not, but Rory figured he wanted them out of the village as quickly as possible. If that meant giving them information that led to their deaths, he seemed all right with that.
“Where can we find them?” The man with the torch hesitated. Rory could guess what he was thinking. If they were captured by the bandits and forced to talk, then any information would lead the bandits back to the village. “Please, they took my friend’s son.” Rory wasn’t sure how Niccolò translated his words, but it seemed to strike a chord with the man.
He spoke hurriedly to the elder and the old man nodded his head as he listened. Once the man finished, the elder looked grim but he nodded one more time.
“The bandits reside near a town called Conosalmi,” said the man with the torch. “It is less than a day’s ride south of here. If you leave now, you will reach it by sunrise.”
“Thank you-” began Rory, but Niccolò never got the chance to translate his words.
“If you return to our village, we will kill you. Go, take your unholy object and may we never see your likeness again.” The man and the elder turned and walked back to their home. Rory stood dumbfounded along with the Polos.
“Why did they not mention these bandits when we were first here?” snarled Niccolò.
“Because they are scared,” said Rory. The man had put on a tough act, but there had been a slight tremble in his voice. It had not been an idle threat but that didn’t mean the man wanted to hurt them. “They are only trying to protect what is theirs. They are no different than us.”
“Shall we follow their instructions?” asked Maffeo. He had already climbed up onto the wagon and now picked up the reins.
“What other choice do we have?” Niccolò said bitterly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed heavily, no doubt trying to clear a lump from his throat.
“We ride south then,” said Rory. And hope we’re not too late, he added silently in his head.
The settlement was a warren of crude houses. Rory wouldn’t have called it a town, per se. It seemed more like barracks, a place for soldiers to sleep and eat until their next battle. The bandits weren’t attached to these houses. He could easily imagine them just packing up their loot and riding off, ready to terrorize another part of the region.
“Can you see Macro?” whispered Niccolò.
From their position on a nearby ridge, they could see into the settlement, but they were too far away to make out much of the details. Even Rory, with his superior eyesight, could barely make out the individual faces of the bandits. They all looked the same, really. They were all dressed in long robes and had their heads covered to keep them warm and to protect their faces from the rays of the sun. If there was a leader among them, he wasn’t outside.
The same applied to Marco. There weren’t any cages that Rory could see, which meant the youngest Polo might have been inside one of the buildings. It was impossible to tell which one though. Every man was armed with a sword and there were a few buildings with bandits standing guard outside. Storm the wrong house and they could end up with loot, not Marco.
“I cannot see him, but we are too far away. We need to get inside.” A crude mud wall surrounded the settlement. It wasn’t impossible to breech, but it would make the task harder.
“Let us leave then.” Niccolò jumped to his feet.
“Niccolò.” Rory grabbed him by the coat and pulled him back down. “We cannot afford to be reckless.” The man began to protest and Rory tightened his grip. “We need a plan.”
Unfortunately, Rory didn’t have one. He had gotten them here, but now he wasn’t sure what to do next. He didn’t want to do anything that would endanger Marco’s life. Niccolò was usually the man with a plan, but his fears for Marco were clouding his head.
Being in charge was not one of Rory’s strong suits. He was good at following orders but he had never liked giving them. It was part of the reason he loved Amy so much. She spoke her mind without any fear and she always knew what she wanted. He had to admire that. Amy also shared that trait with the Doctor. The Time Lord always had a plan. He was always ten steps ahead of the enemy. If he had been here now, he’d have a rousing speech ready to go and roles for everyone to perform.
Neither Amy nor the Doctor were here, though. Rory could have used their help. Three men were not enough to take on an army of bandits.
So maybe there was no point trying…
He should have kept his armour on. He was totally uncomfortable without it.
Rory kept his head down as he wandered through the settlement. He had no choice but to remove the bulkier parts of his centurion outfit; they were too conspicuous. The bronze chest plate, wrist guards, leg guards, and helmet were back with the wagon. He still wore the leather tunic, but the leather skirt was gone. Over top, he had thrown on the robe of the dead bandit and he also wore the man’s turban. He looked like a very bad imitation of Indiana Jones from Raiders of the Lost Ark.
“They’re digging in the wrong place,” he muttered in English as he walked on.
He had waited until the sun began to set to scale the mud wall. There were long shadows to hide in but still enough light to see by. Just in case, Rory had smeared mud all over his face to lessen how pale he was compared to everyone else. He felt like a commando behind enemy lines.
So far, no one had stopped him. Sneaking around was far better than trying a frontal attack, though it had taken some time to convince Niccolò that this was the best approach. The man wanted to be more involved in the rescue of his son and Rory couldn’t blame him. But he had to be the one to go inside the bandit settlement, not the Polos. He had fighting experience and, unbeknownst to the two travellers, he couldn’t be hurt. Well, he could be hurt, but it wouldn’t slow him down too much if he was.
Rory paused outside the last guarded house. The others had all contained the belongings and objects the bandits had looted. If Marco wasn’t in this house, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. It would take too long to search the rest of the buildings and the longer he stayed in the settlement, the greater the chance of his discovery.
There was no window to peek through, but he didn’t need a window. He just closed his eyes and concentrated. Over the years, he found he had really good hearing if he made an effort to listen. It was a strange quality to have for a plastic robot, but it came in handy.
Like now, for instance. He picked up not one, but a handful heartbeats inside the house. They were frantic, but steady.
Rory opened his eyes and mouthed a curse. He hadn’t been expecting any more prisoners beyond Marco. This definitely put a wrinkle in his plan. Two people could leave the settlement without detection, but an entire group was another story. If he didn’t want to leave any of the other prisoners behind, and he wasn’t about to do that, then this rescue was going to be a lot more chaotic than he had envisioned.
The sun was gone overheard, leaving only the vestige of a lit sky. If the bandits could use darkness to strike, why couldn’t he?
He waited until it was completely dark. Rory had hoped there would be a change of guard, but no such luck. These poor fellows were stuck here while the rest of the bandits drank and ate. At least some of the other bandits were occupied with supper. He had that in his favour.
With his turban nearly pulled down over his eyes, he approached the two guards. They really didn’t seem to care that one of their own was stopping by. One said something in an unknown language, a greeting probably, but Rory paid it no attention. He was too busy gauging the guards’ behaviour. When he was close enough, and no one shouted angrily, he struck.
He unleashed a powerful punch to the jaw of the guard to his right. The blow, fuelled by his unnatural strength, snapped the guard’s head to the left. The bandit didn’t even have time to grunt as he stumbled and fell to the ground. The other guard had started to reach for his sword, but he was too slow. Rory pulled his own dagger free and shoved the guard back against the outside of the house with his free hand. He put the tip of the dagger to the man’s throat.
“You probably don’t understand a word I’m saying,” Rory said in English, “but shout out and you’re dead. Got that?” He applied just the slightest of pressure and the tip of his dagger nicked the skin of the man’s throat. The man didn’t say anything in response.
Taking that as a sign of compliance, Rory threw open the door of the house and pushed the guard inside. It was too dark to see inside, but he heard gasps. “Marco. Are you there?” he asked in Italian.
“Yes!” The voice that replied was full of relief. “Centurion, is that you?”
“It is me. How many are with you?”
“Five others.”
“Are any of them injured?”
“No, not from what I could see.”
“Okay, that’s good,” Rory said to himself in English. If everyone could run, they still had a chance. “Are you bound?” he asked, switching back to Italian.
“No.”
Better and better. Rory spun the guard around so they faced each other. “Sorry about this,” he said in English. He drove his fist into the man’s chin and when he doubled over, Rory delivered another blow to his temple. The man fall over like a cut tree and he landed with a thump in the dirt.
“Time to go.” Rory urgently motioned to the open door. He felt six people rush past him. Once they were all out, he stepped outside and dragged the other unconscious guard inside the house. The two guards would wake up, but hopefully they would be long gone by then.
Back outside, he caught his first glimpse of the prisoners. He couldn’t see much besides their basic outlines. If he had a night vision mode, he didn’t know about it. What they really needed was a torch to light the way. He would have given anything for a modern one right now. Instead of wasting time wishing for things that wouldn’t be invented for hundreds of years, Rory settled for going back the way he came. He kept the group clustered tightly together as they ran. The route was laid out in his mind, but that had been before the bandits had settled for supper. He had no clue where people were positioned anymore.
The glow of a fire came from the centre of the settlement and he made sure their path didn’t stray too close. If he heard voices, he motioned for the prisoners to pause and wait. Now that his vision had adapted to the darkness, he could see that the group was made up of young men and women. It made sense. Younger people made better workers.
After a couple of twists and turn to avoid some roaming bandits, they made it to the outer wall. It didn’t look like where Rory had entered, but he would take what he could get.
“Up and over,” he said to Marco. He laced his hands together, providing a step so he could boast the young man to the top of the wall.
Marco placed his foot in Rory’s cradled hands and then nodded his head. Rory easily lifted him up and held him there as Marco found a secure grip around the edge of the wall. Once he had a firm grip, he climbed up the rest of the wall and then dropped out of sight over the other side. There was a dull thump and then Marco quietly called out, “All is well.”
Rory mimed the move again, hoping the other prisoners would understand. One young man seemed to get it and he placed his foot in Rory’s hand. One by one, he boosted them up the wall until he was the only one left. Then he was left with an obvious question.
How was he going to get over the wall?
He tried jumping up but as powerful as his legs were, he couldn’t get high enough to grasp the wall’s edge. “Marco!” he hissed.
“Yes, Centurion?”
“Your father and uncle are waiting on top of a nearby ridge to the west. Take the other prisoners and go.”
“What about you? I will not leave you behind.” Marco wasn’t just being stubborn. He was being honourable.
“I will be fine. Just go!” Rory didn’t stick around. He ran along the wall, looking for anything that he could use as a step or a ladder. He started to consider just hacking his way through the mud wall with his sword when he heard the rustle of cloth behind him. He turned, but it was too late.
A bandit rushed him from one of the houses, his sword already drawn. The blade entered through Rory’s stomach and it was so sharp that it kept going until the tip emerged through his back. Rory gasped as pain raced through him, hot as fire. His whole body went stiff. In the dim light, he saw the bandit grin.
The sword easily slid free from his body, hardly making a sound. The bandit said something; it sounded like a boast. Rory doubled over, putting a hand to his stomach. He had never been hurt this bad before. Had he been human, he would have passed out by now from the blood loss. As it was, he was miserable, but fine.
“I hate to disappoint you,” Rory said through gritted teeth, “but I’m not dead yet.”
He straightened up to his full height, fixing the bandit with his best scowl. It still felt like he had a blade sticking out of his stomach, but he ignored the pain. The bandit blinked and his mouth fell open. He just stared at Rory, too confused and scared to run.
Rory found the strength to lift his arm for another punch. Once the bandit was out, he succumbed to the urge to fall down. He landed face first in the dirt and had to turn over to avoid breathing in a mouth of dust. For the span of several seconds, he just lay there. His hand was still over his stomach, like he was trying to keep his guts from spilling out, but, as he was painfully aware, he had no guts. There was no blood and a probing finger found just a thin gap where the sword had gone through.
He had a hole in his stomach.
With a groan, Rory sat up. He could still move. The wound wasn’t affecting the mobility of his torso. Even the pain was slowly starting to fade. Given enough time, he would be perfectly fine, albeit with a nasty gash running through him. He wasn’t sure how he was going to close this wound this time.
He got to his feet and the ground swayed beneath him. Only once had Rory been drop dead drunk and the experience was similar to what he was feeling now. His vision was slightly warped and for the life of him he couldn’t walk in a straight line. But he stumbled along anyway. He needed to leave. He had to get out. It became a mantra in his head.
It felt like he wandered for hours before some luck finally came his way. He found an empty barrel of wine outside one of the houses and, with some effort, managed to drag it back to the wall. He was slow as a snail as he climbed onto the barrel and as he reached for the top of the wall for one, long painful second, he was completely exposed. Visions of arrows and spears striking him in the back filled his head.
His boots scrapped against the mud surface of the wall, trying to find some purchase. He found just enough grip to swing his legs up and from there he simply rolled over and fell down to the other side. The pain of hitting the ground was nothing compared to what he felt when the sword went through him.
Hunched over like a cripple, Rory lurched his way back to the ridge where he left the brothers. He hoped Marco would be waiting for him by the time he got back.
“How are you feeling?”
The wagon struck another bump in the road and the shock was transferred to Rory. He grimaced. “I will live,” he said simply.
A small smile graced Marco’s face. He had escaped his ordeal with a bruise on his forehead and a minor cut on his chin. His horse kept pace with the wagon as they talked. “You are very strange, if I may say so.”
“Oh?” Rory leaned back against the Pandorica. His own horse was being guided along by Niccolò at the head of the caravan. “I am not an ordinary man.”
When he had arrived back at the wagon in the middle of the night, there had been a flurry of activity. Marco immediately noticed the gash in his armour and the Polos had rushed to get Rory patched up. He barely had a chance to get a word in and when he did, he surprised them by asking for fire. The memory of melting his plastic flesh together and the searing pain that had been involved invoked another grimace from him. The procedure had left him barely conscious and the Polos had been left with numerous questions. By some miracle, they hadn’t left him by the side of the road.
“I do not mean your…” Marco paused to search for the appropriate word. “Health. I refer to your actions. You were under no obligation to rescue me.” He was stating the obvious in that conversational way of his.
They rode along for a bit as Rory mulled this over. He hadn’t chosen to be here, but like when he had joined Amy in the TARDIS, it seemed only natural to stay. The Polos were in the midst of a massive undertaking. If Rory could help them in any way, he would. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. He’d be stupid to pass it up.
“I always come back for my friends,” Rory said with a smile.
And then the wagon hit another bump.