A DOCTOR WHO STORY
He dreamed. He dreamed that he was falling — falling down a long, dark pity with no visible beginning or end. The sick feeling triggered by quick descent spread in his stomach, and he screamed noiselessly, the sound ripped from his mouth by a hot wind that seared agonisingly against his lips, shredding away the soft skin. He felt his clothes tearing and breaking, and then his skin peeling off, his blood vapourising.
Soon all substance was torn viciously from his body. If it had been real life Lumbar would have died ages ago, but he was still looking on, a third person bird’s eye view, watching the few scraps that were left of his own dream body spiralling ever downwards.
The heat was becoming unbearable in the dream. The darkness was seething with tension and flame and... malice. Lumbar felt that there were eyes all around, watching him. He tried to cast his vision towards them but could not, still facing down.
And then the darkness fell away, replaced by blinding orange light and the twinkling of stars. Lumbar squinted and could make out that the source of the light was a huge spiral of gas and colour, spinning slowly, mesmerisingly, coils of energy curling ever inwards to the object’s volcanic heart.
Lumbar gazed into its centre and felt an invisible tug pull at him. Beckoning. He did not resist and subsuquently found himself being sucked at an alarming velocity towards that core of radiance.
In and in he went, space whooshing dizzily past him in flashes of white and orange and black and grey and red as the speed of his summons increased. He felt himself spin and screamed and thrashed but it was no good. Although it was his dream he had no control whatsoever over where he went and where he didn’t. It was more like a vision than a dream.
He saw that the heart of the spiral was close now, so very close, looming up in terrible fire. He dizzily took in that he was going to go inside before this event actually occurred and he plunged headfirst into the depths of the great furnace.
Lumbar looked around. Greyness. Dark, unseeing greyness, clouding his vision. Nothing, empty. A vaccuum.
But it wasn’t empty.
For suddenly, looming up, a great shadow of despair, was a figure. A figure radiating such malice and evil that Lumbar’s head began to spin. He looked right at it but could not distinguish any features at all. The shape was cloaked in secrecy. But somehow he sensed.
Sensed that it no longer waited in the dark.
It was coming.
Turning towards him.
He screamed suddenly, and felt himself flying upwards, flying out of the grey mist of his dream. But before he went, he heard the shadow in the mist cry up at him — a terrible, echoing cry that pierced his heart and shook him to the core, a voice carrying ancient, implacable menace and overwhelming, uncontrollable hatred for all living things that ran amok beneath its deathly shadow.
‘Even now my slaves come, risen from their chains of stone and fire, crawling from their endless hibernation up towards me. The worlds will fall as the Cataclysm approaches. I am the Destroyer. And all. Will be. DESTROYED!!!!!!!!!!!’
With that last word Lumbar’s dream changed, and, for one split second, he saw a sheet of flame, behind which loomed a great red face. Fanged and twisted — and it roared.
And then Lumbar was out. Back to Arkasaln, and the world of the living.
But what the figure had said was true.
The Cataclysm was approaching.
And sooner or later, it would arrive.
TO BE CONTINUED...