Bride Quest
An adventure of the Fourth Doctor, Sarah Jane Smith and Harry Sullivan.
by Clive May (clive@cj4386.demon.co.uk)
The copy right of all things pertaining to the concept and characters of Dr
Who is the property of the BBC. This story is a work of fan fiction; it has
been written simply for the pleasure it gave me in writing it; and no money
has or will change hands with respect to the story.
The story and original characters are copyright Clive May 2001.
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One.
"There! Nothing blue! As requested." Sarah announced, stepping into the
console room. The Doctor grinned, and waggled a large pair of wellingtons
under her nose.
Sarah pointedly ignored the rubber boots. "Is it really that important about
the colour?" she went on.
"Yes, Sarah. Very."
"Why?"
The Doctor looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Oh. The colour indigo has a -
ah - special significance for the Kulak People."
Sarah waited several seconds for the Doctor to elaborate; but it seemed he
had said all he was going to on the matter. Sarah reined in her annoyance -
they were going on holiday; and Sarah, not wanting to spoil the light mood,
decided to pass over the blatant evasion.
She smoothed a hand over the ankle length woollen skirt. It was grass-green,
with white embroidery lambs gamboling around the hem. A broad brown leather
belt held it in at her waist. The buckle had an odd heart-shaped design.
Sarah drew a knife from the sheath at her hip. The heavy blade was dull grey
and honed to razor sharpness.
"Be careful with that, Sarah! It's not a toy;" the Doctor warned.
"I know that, Doctor," Sarah said. She balanced the weapon thoughtfully in
one hand for a moment. Look - if everything's so peaceful on the Kulak - why
should I have to wear it?"
"It's part of the outfit," the Doctor explained, his voice level. The open
tone only served to make Sarah even more suspicious. She gave him a hard
look.
"Are you dead certain about that? Remember, Doctor, I HAVE heard these
sorts of reassurances before."
The Doctor put on an air of injured innocence. "Sarah! Everyone wears a
skinning knife on the Kulak. You wouldn't be quite properly dressed without
it."
You had to admire him, Sarah thought wryly; he really was very good at
injured innocence. Still unconvinced, Sarah sheathed the knife. She
adjusted the lapels of the short sleeved, linen shirt. The loose blouse was
pale blue, closed with red and gold thongs. It was decorated with intricate
embroidered patterns of flowers. Over the colorful shirt, she wore a
sleeveless jerkin with a high collar in soft, light brown leather. This,
too, was patterned with intricate embroidery. The over all effect was to
create an impression of exotic gypsy mystery.
The Doctor looked her up and down. "The festival dress of the Kulak
definitely suites you, Sarah," he announced with a glint of amusement in his
blue eyes. "You look fine. What do you think, Harry?"
The Navy Surgeon nodded. There was a vague air of the piratical about his
own garb. He was wearing loose trousers of soft brown leather, tucked into
high black boots. His embroidered shirt was pale yellow and sleeveless. The
jerkin was dull red. Like Sarah, he too, had a broad bladed knife hanging at
his hip. The whole ensemble, he fancied, created a somewhat ludicrous
effect; but Sarah, on the other hand? -
"You look splendid, Old Girl," he said.
"Pity about the hair," the Doctor said. "You'll not be quite decent without
the braids - won't you reconsider?"
"I am NOT, I repeat, NOT, wearing that infernal wig!" she snapped, eyeing
with distaste the offending article sitting atop the rotor. She bent and
swept up a shoulder bag. It was crammed with what Sarah considered to be
essentials for this holiday on the Kulak.
The Doctor picked up the wellingtons. He waved them under her nose again.
"Sarah? You'll need -"
Sarah grimaced at him. As far as she was concerned, she'd fulfilled the
Doctor's insistence on 'sensible shoes'. Pointedly ignoring him, she stepped
through the doors of the TARDIS.
A moment later, there came a wordless expression of disgust. It was quickly
followed by some words that nice girls did not ought to know, let alone use.
The Doctor raised an eyebrow at Harry. He waggled the wellingtons. The navy
man shrugged. The Doctor set the boots down. He settled the hat on his
curls and wound his scarf.
"I suppose we ought to go and see?" he mused. Shoving hands into the pockets
of his great coat, he stalked towards the doors.
Grinning, Harry trailed in his wake.
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A dozen spears lurked in the willows along the river bank. They thrust up
through the fresh, young green like bare branches, tipped with deadly blades
of razor sharp silver steel. Like shining flowers of death, the points
glittered, signalling their deadly intent with bright flashes of the
mid-morning sunlight.
Kulaan ought to have noticed them.
His failure to do so was entirely due to the Day dreams of the joys to come
that evening at the Festival, filling his mind. they cloaked his alertness
to danger in a warm glow of triumph. Blithely, he urged his brown mare
onwards, through the tall early summer grass. The black mare, bearing his
precious prize, trotted after at the end of a long tether.
Before him, the hedge of green willow bordering the river jogged closer;
already he could hear the lazy slap and gurgle of the water. A huge grin lit
his youthful countenance at the sound. Once over the river, which marked the
boundary between Temple Ground and his father's travelling camp, the quest
would be formally completed. Turning in the saddle, he grinned broadly at
the young woman on the black mare. Yes, he thought with a great surge of
triumph, the prize was worth the dangers of the Quest.
The girl's wrists were bound with a coarse, rawhide thong. Noticing his gaze
upon her, she reached up with her hands and pushed back the hood of a red
leather riding cloak. A silken tumble of lustrous black hair fell loose.
It spread over her shoulders, framing her tanned features, shining darkly in
the soft sunlight.
The un-braided state of her mane was more than a little improper. On
stealing her from the tent of Kharran Khan, there had been no time for
Demereen to dress fit to be seen in public. The mildly erotic sight of her
tumbled locks, blowing free in the breath of Holy Mother, sent a shock of
desire right through the boy's slim frame.
In answer to Kulaan's grin, her demure expression became tickled at the edges
by a slight smile. The delicious quirking of her generous lips was full of a
conspiratorial amusement. The contained laughter lit up her black almond
shaped eyes, making them shine. They were set in a broad high-cheeked face,
full of the first flush of womanhood.
This close to a satisfactory conclusion of the Quest, Demereen felt no shame
in letting the proprieties slip a little. As she let her gaze wander
lovingly over the slim form of Kulaan, her expression flowered into a radiant
smile. Of course, such flirting this side of the river was quite improper;
but there was no harm in it; for they WOULD be wed this night at the
festival.
Suddenly self-conscious under that frank appraisal, Kulaan stood in the
stirrups and looked past his prize, back over the waving green sea of grass
towards the settlement of Temple. The deep, cloudless blue of the sky there
was hazed with smoke, rising from the cooking fires of the Kulak People,
gathering for the Night of No Moons. He scanned the horizon. Nothing moved
there save the scattered flocks of sheep grazing between the widely spaced
clumps of trees. Strain his eyes as he might, Kulaan could detect no sign of
pursuit.
He had done it! His grin spread even wider. In a sudden excess of
uncharacteristic flamboyance, brought on by his imminent success, he lifted
the tether rope to his lips and kissed it ostentatiously. Then he rubbed the
supple leather rope against the first sproutings of beard on his cheek. His
long braids danced about his shoulders, the strips of dyed leather platted
into them flashing in the bright sunlight. Little fringed tassels of leather
at the tip of each plat, bearing representations of his Clan Totem, danced in
the soft breeze. Letting out a wild whoop of triumph, he turned back to the
river; and his heart sank.
Riding out of the fringe of green along the river, were ten horsemen of
Kharran Khan's retinue. Their leader was a large bearded man in his early
forties - the Khan himself. A luxuriant walrus mustache flourished upon his
upper lip. Eight plats adorned his head, gathered into the warrior's single
pony tail. So, Demereen's father had come in person to safeguard his
daughter's honour.
Kulaan's pride in the fact that his daring had brought out the Khan himself
was tempered by a certain amount of fear - the Khan had something of a
reputation. On the Kulak, where all men held themselves warriors as well as
shepherds, to have a reputation really did mean something special.
The steady brown eyes of Demereen's father regarded him, gazing out grimly
from a tanned face, high-cheeked and as broad as his daughter's. As their
eyes met, the big man shook his head a little sadly. Kulaan noted the regret
and disappointment there. The burly man shifted in his saddle and nodded to
the man to his right - Nylan, his Captain of Cavalry.
The wiry little man gestured with a drawn lance. The rank of horse spread
left and right along the hedge of green screening the river bank. Lances
were drawn from saddle sheaths, lifted high. Steel points glinted in the
sunlight, razor edged. Small round bucklers were strapped to forearms and
settled into place.
Kulaan looked left and right; but there was no where to run.
A fight then?
In a self-consciously dramatic gesture, he pressed the rope to his lips one
last time, then let it drop. He drew out the long spear from its sheath on
the left side of the saddle. Ten against one. The odds were not good. But
the Great Kulik Khan had faced down twenty on his Bride Quest - and come
through. Kulaan grinned wryly. He was not the Kulik Khan of fabulous
legend.
The ten men, clad in black leather armour emblazoned with the spread-wide
silver eagle of the Kharran Clan upon their breastplates, all dipped lances.
The ten spear points aimed right at Kulaan's chest. The tableau froze.
Brightly tasseled braids fluttered in the breeze. Horse tails whisked
nervously; ears flicking back and forth, the trained cavalry mounts
waited for the command they knew would come.
Kulaan lowered his lance, and sighted along it. He gave up a heartfelt
prayer to the Holy Mother Goddess of the Kulak. Letting go a yell, he
spurred his brown mare. She answered his command with alacrity, springing
to a head-long gallop. Kulaan rose in the stirrups, and aimed the lance at
the white silk eagle with spread wings stitched to the leather chest plate
worn by Demereen's father.
Kulak Kharran Khan watched the boy come on, sitting at his ease atop the big
brown horse. After some seconds, he drew his lance with an air of regret.
His expert eyes squinted along the lance, assessing the seat of the oncoming
rider. He shook his head in mild disbelief at the boy's ridiculous posture.
At the very last moment, the Khan swayed his body aside. As Kulaan thundered
past, the Khan swatted him from the horse's back with a negligent, almost
contemptuous ease.
Kulaan tumbled headlong into the long grass. His squeal of fright turning
into a grunt of pain as he hit and rolled in an untidy tangle of limbs.
Instantly, he tried to rise. A spear shaft cut him across the shoulders.
Another was thrust between his legs. He went down again on his face. More
blows rained down on his back, his legs, his buttocks. Kulaan put his arms
over his head and whimpered, making no further attempts to rise.
No, he most certainly was not the legendary Kulik Khan.
"Enough!" the Khan bellowed at last. The men stood off at his command. Two
of them grabbed Kulaan's arms, heaving him to his feet. Unceremoniously,
they frog-marched him before the horse of the Khan.
Winded and panting, Kulaan tried to stand tall and straight; but it was only
the supporting grip of the two men holding him that kept him on his feet. He
did, however, manage to keep his head up, meeting the grim scrutiny of
Demereen's father with a steady gaze.
The man regarded him in silence for a long time, tweaking at his moustache
with strong fingers. The other men stood around, some leaning on spear buts;
while others had climbed back into the saddle. All were grinning.
At last the Khan shook his head in a gesture of infinite disappointment. He
spoke. "Well now, m'boy? What ARE we going to do with you?"
A ripple of unpleasant laughter ran around the men. They fingered spear
blades, and looked expectant. The Khan lifted his gaze to Demereen. The
girl sat slumped in the saddle under a cloud of dejection.
"Ah! Demmy. What's to do m'dear? What's to do?" he sighed. "You understand
m'dear? This young puppy of the Kulak MUST needs be given a lesson in
manners."
Demereen's expression was the purest distilled anguish. The Khan covered the
clash of love and duty in his heart by attending to practical matters as he
ever did at moments of emotional crisis. He said gruffly, but not unkindly:
"Look to your decency, girl. Cover that hair."
Demereen lowered her gaze and reached up her bound hands to pull the hood
over her blowing mane. The Khan nodded in satisfaction as she tucked the
last strands under the red leather; then he forced himself to attend to the
unpleasantness at hand. He nodded to Nylan.
To a cacophony of jeering and taunts, Kulaan was quickly stripped of his
jerkin, trousers, shirt and under garments. A broad bladed skinning knife
was drawn, held on high, twisted to catch the sunlight. Nylan looked to his
Lord for the word. The Khan considered, lifted a hand with three fingers
raised. Nylan grinned. The Khan glanced at the face of his daughter. She
was pale, her eyes wide, full of a hopeless pleading. the sight squeezed his
heart; he relented a little; he lowered one finger. The grin on Nylan's face
faded a bit.
The knife flashed down.
Kulaan screamed.
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A hundred yards upstream, The Shivan Witch winced. She let out a tiny squeak
of heartfelt sympathy, and squeezed her eyes shut, not wishing to witness the
boy's disaster.
The gigantic white horse like Prairie Runner, on whose rump the little woman
sat, began to edge forward from concealment in the shadows of the willows.
The Shivan Witch tapped a bare heel imperiously on the muscular thigh.
Obediently, the creature stopped. The great head swung about to fix the
Witch with a questioning look. The plump woman in the sleeveless grey shift
patted the back to reassure the gentle creature. She gathered up a handful
of her streaming black mane. Twirling it into a thick snake, she began
twisting it through her plump fingers in vexation. Her large, black eyes,
full of a timeless ennui, studied Demereen, who sat slumped in the saddle,
watching the excruciating events being played out on the plain.
A mighty jeering rose from the throats of the Khan's men. The Witch's lips
pursed into a tight line of irritation as Nylan held aloft the trophies. Two
long black braids waved in the Breath of Holy Mother. The little fringed
Clan Tokens fluttered at their tips. Kulaan put a hand to his shorn head in
dismay. Two more Bride Thongs gone! At this rate, he'd have no Thongs left
with which to tie the Bonding Knot.
Kulaan was given no time to dwell on his misfortune. Four men grabbed him up
and bundled him to the river bank. Setting him down for a moment, they each
took a new purchase on arms and legs. To great shouts of: "one, two, three,"
they swung him back and forth. On "four," they released him.
Kulaan's naked body arced up over the clumps of reeds at the river's edge,
then down to hit the lazily flowing water with an almighty splash. His yell
was cut off abruptly. When he surfaced, the Khan's men were lining the bank
shouting insults, and laughing with glee.
The river was only some thirty yards across; but it felt to Kulaan, under
those jeering taunts, like thirty miles. At long last, he pushed through the
clumps of reeds lining the opposite shore and dragged himself up the bank.
Dripping, naked, and with bowed head, he set out to walk to his father's
Travelling Camp. He did not look back.
Failed again!
His cheeks burned with the anticipated shame and ignominy that would come
treading at his heels like a faithful dog into the Clan Steading. The table
would be set for the feast of his triumphal return with his new bride. He
could already vision the dreadful hurt look in his mother's eyes and the
expression of exasperation on his father's face. His cousins would be
merciless; their amusement would be unbearable. The mental picture of his
cousines smirking faces made him squirm with embarrassment.
He stumbled to a halt. He couldn't go back. He just couldn't.
From the concealment of the willows, Shiv watched him go. She began to bang
the heel of one of her feet against the animal's thigh, perfectly expressing
her annoyance. The great horse head swung around. The creature fixed her
with an aggrieved eye. She shot the animal an apologetic smile, desisted,
and turned her attention to the activity going on farther down the near bank.
The Khan's men were bundling up the poor boy's possessions, tying them on
his horse, and fixing the braids to the spear hafts just below the points.
They would serve to proclaim, to all who saw, the boy's failure in the Quest.
Perhaps she should have intervened? It would, after all, have been such a
small thing to exercise her power of Glamour. The trouble was, that she had
not the guile to be so discreet without at least two of her sisters to
assist. Her meddling could not have gone un-noticed. She dared not risk the
boy finding out that she had conspired to help him in this particular
situation. There were places where the Glamour could be employed with no
loss of honour; but this was not one of them. He would have felt demeaned by
her assistance, and less of a man. She liked the boy too much to do that to
him. She shook her head sadly, a gesture she had learned from the Sons and
Daughters of Terra.
Out on the plain, the Khan's men had formed up into a line and were starting
for Temple. When they were a respectable distance off, without any signal of
command, the great grey gelding walked out of the shadows into the soft
sunlight to follow them.
Swinging up her legs, Shiv lay down along the back of the Prairie Runner, and
pillowed her head on her hands. Adrift in the expanse of its broad back, she
wriggled into a comfortable position, stretching out luxuriously. Through
half closed eyes, she gazed thoughtfully up into the depth-less blue bowl of
the sky. Her mistake, she now realised, had been in not taking care to
circumvent the meddling of that odious priest, Rasaken. That was a mistake
she intended not to make again.
An intense expression settled on her angular features, as the Shivan
Witch began making new plans to scheme a favourable outcome to Kulaan's
Bride Quest.
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The tall young man and the dun robed priest threaded their way through the
milling throng of colorfully garbed festival goers. A hot sun shone down on
the happy scene around them, from a clear blue sky. Clots of warm air hung
in stifling miasmas among the drab coloured pavilions of the Kulak Clans,
barely stirred by the Breath of Holy Mother. The lazy atmosphere was
redolent with the reek of cook fires, the thronging crowds, ubiquitous
livestock, and was ringing with a chattering bleating cacophony of merriment.
The pair paused by a stall selling sweetmeats and jugs of wine. Leaning on
his shepherd's crook, the priest pushed back the cowl of his dun robes with a
bony hand. Producing a square of brown cloth, he mopped at the sweat beading
his bald pate. The sun had burned that head brown, and wind had weathered
the skin to wrinkled leather. He put the cloth away, and smiled benignly
down at some children eyeing the sweetmeats on the stall. Unfortunately, his
hawk like features turned the friendly expression into a predatory grimace.
The children backed away, the sweets forgotten.
His companion smiled darkly. The expression sat well on his handsome, clean
shaven face. "Well?" he demanded, whilst making a pretense of looking over
the cooked meats and pastries. He made no effort to hide his distaste of the
wares on sale.
"Alas, my Lord Grimlak!" The old priest exclaimed in mock
dismay. "The questing of that young puppy has been - over-taken by
misfortune."
"You don't say?" Grimlak gloated. "Pray tell, Rasaken - what went wrong?"
"Somehow, the Khan learned of the boy's plans."
"And he rode out in defence of the family honour?" Grimlak was openly
skeptical.
"he did. There could have been no doubt that he would."
"Really?" Grimlak questioned. "The man's a fool!" He made his choice from
the stall. Tossing down a silver coin, he picked up a large jug of wine.
Taking a long swig, he lowered the jug, and eyed with distaste the nanny goat
sampling his black woolen trews. He uttered an oath, lashing out at the
harmless animal with a booted foot. He caught it a vicious kick in the ribs.
The nanny goat went sprawling, bleating in terror. It jumped up quickly, and
nuzzled its way into the full skirts of a heavily pregnant girl, who was
passing the stall in company with an older woman.
The girl rounded on Grimlak with a savage snarl of anger. "You dog! What
harm has that poor nanny done to you?"
Grimlak's hand strayed towards the sword at his belt; but the moment he
realised his abuser was a woman, he relaxed. He eyed the girl up and down,
noting the advanced state of pregnancy. An unpleasant coldness glinted in
his black eyes; and a thin, sour smile curled his hairless lip. The girl
shivered under that feral scrutiny. She grunted and clutched at her swollen
belly, as her baby kicked spastically.
"Zamaleen! Do come along girl!" the older woman exhorted. "We mustn't be
late for Devotions - on this of all days!" She glared around at the crowd
watching the matter with considerable interest, and no trace of embarrassment
whatsoever. Even divided by Clan loyalties, as they all too often were, in
adversity, the Kulak people were a single family; a spat between two, was the
concern of all. It was the Kulak way.
Zamaleen bent and coaxed the goat from her skirts. She calmed its fearful
quivering with a gentle stroking hand, before shooing it on its way. She
straightened to level a look of pure malice at the Kulak Lord, before turning
her back on him. Joining hands with the other woman, the pair moved away.
The press of people opened easily to allow them passage.
Grimlak watched them go, his expression one of anger, tinged with a wistful
regret. Sometimes, sometimes it seemed to him that the universe contained
only pregnant women - always their swollen bellies full of other men's
bastards! Muttering an oath against the Goddess, he turned his back on them.
From the middle of his back, Yellow cat-eyes watched the two women departing.
They were set in the snarling tiger head Totem of the Vylian Clan,
embroidered in coloured wools on the back of his jerkin.
Grimlak dismissed the incident from his mind and returned his attention to
the priest, who was watching the pair with an indulgent smile.
"And Kharran rode out against the boy? Are you sure?" Grimlak asked, taking
up the thread of their previous conversation.
"Oh. Quite certain," the old priest insisted. He tucked the crook against
his side and slid his hands into the sleeves of his robe before he spoke
again. "Kharran Khan is a man of honour. Despite being set on marrying off
that daughter of his to the boy to try and patch things up with the Western
Drift - and he does approve of the Quest of that fold born cur - he is not a
man to over look Kulak Law and Custom, particularly where that wilful
daughter of his is concerned."
"So the young whelp's been cut out?"
"Undoubtedly," Rasaken assured. "There's no way that upstart cur can be back
at Temple before nightfall - if he's the balls to come back at all that is -
after this last fiasco!"
"He may be a low fold-spawned cur of the Western Drift," said Grimlak, his
manner suddenly dangerous; "but for all that, the whelp's a tryer, and lacks
the wit to know when he's bested. So, I want this little matter cleared up
by sunset. I want to be a dozen leagues from this cess pit with the baggage
before the parade passes into Temple Grove."
"It will be arranged," Rasaken assured. "I am just now on my way to entreat
Demereen to take evening devotions. We shall stroll together to Temple."
"By way of the practice grounds?" Grimlak inquired.
"Most certainly."
An unpleasant leer settled on Grimlak's lips. Tossing the empty jug aside,
he drew out a leather thong and wound it about his hands like a garrote.
Snapping the thong taunt, to emphasise his words, he said: "I'll be waiting."
"There! Nothing blue! As requested." Sarah announced, stepping into the
console room. The Doctor grinned, and waggled a large pair of wellingtons
under her nose.
Sarah pointedly ignored the rubber boots. "Is it really that important about
the colour?" she went on.
"Yes, Sarah. Very."
"Why?"
The Doctor looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Oh. The colour indigo has a -
ah - special significance for the Kulak People."
Sarah waited several seconds for the Doctor to elaborate; but it seemed he
had said all he was going to on the matter. Sarah reined in her annoyance -
they were going on holiday; and Sarah, not wanting to spoil the light mood,
decided to pass over the blatant evasion.
She smoothed a hand over the ankle length woollen skirt. It was grass-green,
with white embroidery lambs gamboling around the hem. A broad brown leather
belt held it in at her waist. The buckle had an odd heart-shaped design.
Sarah drew a knife from the sheath at her hip. The heavy blade was dull grey
and honed to razor sharpness.
"Be careful with that, Sarah! It's not a toy;" the Doctor warned.
"I know that, Doctor," Sarah said. She balanced the weapon thoughtfully in
one hand for a moment. Look - if everything's so peaceful on the Kulak - why
should I have to wear it?"
"It's part of the outfit," the Doctor explained, his voice level. The open
tone only served to make Sarah even more suspicious. She gave him a hard
look.
"Are you dead certain about that? Remember, Doctor, I HAVE heard these
sorts of reassurances before."
The Doctor put on an air of injured innocence. "Sarah! Everyone wears a
skinning knife on the Kulak. You wouldn't be quite properly dressed without
it."
You had to admire him, Sarah thought wryly; he really was very good at
injured innocence. Still unconvinced, Sarah sheathed the knife. She
adjusted the lapels of the short sleeved, linen shirt. The loose blouse was
pale blue, closed with red and gold thongs. It was decorated with intricate
embroidered patterns of flowers. Over the colorful shirt, she wore a
sleeveless jerkin with a high collar in soft, light brown leather. This,
too, was patterned with intricate embroidery. The over all effect was to
create an impression of exotic gypsy mystery.
The Doctor looked her up and down. "The festival dress of the Kulak
definitely suites you, Sarah," he announced with a glint of amusement in his
blue eyes. "You look fine. What do you think, Harry?"
The Navy Surgeon nodded. There was a vague air of the piratical about his
own garb. He was wearing loose trousers of soft brown leather, tucked into
high black boots. His embroidered shirt was pale yellow and sleeveless. The
jerkin was dull red. Like Sarah, he too, had a broad bladed knife hanging at
his hip. The whole ensemble, he fancied, created a somewhat ludicrous
effect; but Sarah, on the other hand? -
"You look splendid, Old Girl," he said.
"Pity about the hair," the Doctor said. "You'll not be quite decent without
the braids - won't you reconsider?"
"I am NOT, I repeat, NOT, wearing that infernal wig!" she snapped, eyeing
with distaste the offending article sitting atop the rotor. She bent and
swept up a shoulder bag. It was crammed with what Sarah considered to be
essentials for this holiday on the Kulak.
The Doctor picked up the wellingtons. He waved them under her nose again.
"Sarah? You'll need -"
Sarah grimaced at him. As far as she was concerned, she'd fulfilled the
Doctor's insistence on 'sensible shoes'. Pointedly ignoring him, she stepped
through the doors of the TARDIS.
A moment later, there came a wordless expression of disgust. It was quickly
followed by some words that nice girls did not ought to know, let alone use.
The Doctor raised an eyebrow at Harry. He waggled the wellingtons. The navy
man shrugged. The Doctor set the boots down. He settled the hat on his
curls and wound his scarf.
"I suppose we ought to go and see?" he mused. Shoving hands into the pockets
of his great coat, he stalked towards the doors.
Grinning, Harry trailed in his wake.
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A dozen spears lurked in the willows along the river bank. They thrust up
through the fresh, young green like bare branches, tipped with deadly blades
of razor sharp silver steel. Like shining flowers of death, the points
glittered, signalling their deadly intent with bright flashes of the
mid-morning sunlight.
Kulaan ought to have noticed them.
His failure to do so was entirely due to the Day dreams of the joys to come
that evening at the Festival, filling his mind. they cloaked his alertness
to danger in a warm glow of triumph. Blithely, he urged his brown mare
onwards, through the tall early summer grass. The black mare, bearing his
precious prize, trotted after at the end of a long tether.
Before him, the hedge of green willow bordering the river jogged closer;
already he could hear the lazy slap and gurgle of the water. A huge grin lit
his youthful countenance at the sound. Once over the river, which marked the
boundary between Temple Ground and his father's travelling camp, the quest
would be formally completed. Turning in the saddle, he grinned broadly at
the young woman on the black mare. Yes, he thought with a great surge of
triumph, the prize was worth the dangers of the Quest.
The girl's wrists were bound with a coarse, rawhide thong. Noticing his gaze
upon her, she reached up with her hands and pushed back the hood of a red
leather riding cloak. A silken tumble of lustrous black hair fell loose.
It spread over her shoulders, framing her tanned features, shining darkly in
the soft sunlight.
The un-braided state of her mane was more than a little improper. On
stealing her from the tent of Kharran Khan, there had been no time for
Demereen to dress fit to be seen in public. The mildly erotic sight of her
tumbled locks, blowing free in the breath of Holy Mother, sent a shock of
desire right through the boy's slim frame.
In answer to Kulaan's grin, her demure expression became tickled at the edges
by a slight smile. The delicious quirking of her generous lips was full of a
conspiratorial amusement. The contained laughter lit up her black almond
shaped eyes, making them shine. They were set in a broad high-cheeked face,
full of the first flush of womanhood.
This close to a satisfactory conclusion of the Quest, Demereen felt no shame
in letting the proprieties slip a little. As she let her gaze wander
lovingly over the slim form of Kulaan, her expression flowered into a radiant
smile. Of course, such flirting this side of the river was quite improper;
but there was no harm in it; for they WOULD be wed this night at the
festival.
Suddenly self-conscious under that frank appraisal, Kulaan stood in the
stirrups and looked past his prize, back over the waving green sea of grass
towards the settlement of Temple. The deep, cloudless blue of the sky there
was hazed with smoke, rising from the cooking fires of the Kulak People,
gathering for the Night of No Moons. He scanned the horizon. Nothing moved
there save the scattered flocks of sheep grazing between the widely spaced
clumps of trees. Strain his eyes as he might, Kulaan could detect no sign of
pursuit.
He had done it! His grin spread even wider. In a sudden excess of
uncharacteristic flamboyance, brought on by his imminent success, he lifted
the tether rope to his lips and kissed it ostentatiously. Then he rubbed the
supple leather rope against the first sproutings of beard on his cheek. His
long braids danced about his shoulders, the strips of dyed leather platted
into them flashing in the bright sunlight. Little fringed tassels of leather
at the tip of each plat, bearing representations of his Clan Totem, danced in
the soft breeze. Letting out a wild whoop of triumph, he turned back to the
river; and his heart sank.
Riding out of the fringe of green along the river, were ten horsemen of
Kharran Khan's retinue. Their leader was a large bearded man in his early
forties - the Khan himself. A luxuriant walrus mustache flourished upon his
upper lip. Eight plats adorned his head, gathered into the warrior's single
pony tail. So, Demereen's father had come in person to safeguard his
daughter's honour.
Kulaan's pride in the fact that his daring had brought out the Khan himself
was tempered by a certain amount of fear - the Khan had something of a
reputation. On the Kulak, where all men held themselves warriors as well as
shepherds, to have a reputation really did mean something special.
The steady brown eyes of Demereen's father regarded him, gazing out grimly
from a tanned face, high-cheeked and as broad as his daughter's. As their
eyes met, the big man shook his head a little sadly. Kulaan noted the regret
and disappointment there. The burly man shifted in his saddle and nodded to
the man to his right - Nylan, his Captain of Cavalry.
The wiry little man gestured with a drawn lance. The rank of horse spread
left and right along the hedge of green screening the river bank. Lances
were drawn from saddle sheaths, lifted high. Steel points glinted in the
sunlight, razor edged. Small round bucklers were strapped to forearms and
settled into place.
Kulaan looked left and right; but there was no where to run.
A fight then?
In a self-consciously dramatic gesture, he pressed the rope to his lips one
last time, then let it drop. He drew out the long spear from its sheath on
the left side of the saddle. Ten against one. The odds were not good. But
the Great Kulik Khan had faced down twenty on his Bride Quest - and come
through. Kulaan grinned wryly. He was not the Kulik Khan of fabulous
legend.
The ten men, clad in black leather armour emblazoned with the spread-wide
silver eagle of the Kharran Clan upon their breastplates, all dipped lances.
The ten spear points aimed right at Kulaan's chest. The tableau froze.
Brightly tasseled braids fluttered in the breeze. Horse tails whisked
nervously; ears flicking back and forth, the trained cavalry mounts
waited for the command they knew would come.
Kulaan lowered his lance, and sighted along it. He gave up a heartfelt
prayer to the Holy Mother Goddess of the Kulak. Letting go a yell, he
spurred his brown mare. She answered his command with alacrity, springing
to a head-long gallop. Kulaan rose in the stirrups, and aimed the lance at
the white silk eagle with spread wings stitched to the leather chest plate
worn by Demereen's father.
Kulak Kharran Khan watched the boy come on, sitting at his ease atop the big
brown horse. After some seconds, he drew his lance with an air of regret.
His expert eyes squinted along the lance, assessing the seat of the oncoming
rider. He shook his head in mild disbelief at the boy's ridiculous posture.
At the very last moment, the Khan swayed his body aside. As Kulaan thundered
past, the Khan swatted him from the horse's back with a negligent, almost
contemptuous ease.
Kulaan tumbled headlong into the long grass. His squeal of fright turning
into a grunt of pain as he hit and rolled in an untidy tangle of limbs.
Instantly, he tried to rise. A spear shaft cut him across the shoulders.
Another was thrust between his legs. He went down again on his face. More
blows rained down on his back, his legs, his buttocks. Kulaan put his arms
over his head and whimpered, making no further attempts to rise.
No, he most certainly was not the legendary Kulik Khan.
"Enough!" the Khan bellowed at last. The men stood off at his command. Two
of them grabbed Kulaan's arms, heaving him to his feet. Unceremoniously,
they frog-marched him before the horse of the Khan.
Winded and panting, Kulaan tried to stand tall and straight; but it was only
the supporting grip of the two men holding him that kept him on his feet. He
did, however, manage to keep his head up, meeting the grim scrutiny of
Demereen's father with a steady gaze.
The man regarded him in silence for a long time, tweaking at his moustache
with strong fingers. The other men stood around, some leaning on spear buts;
while others had climbed back into the saddle. All were grinning.
At last the Khan shook his head in a gesture of infinite disappointment. He
spoke. "Well now, m'boy? What ARE we going to do with you?"
A ripple of unpleasant laughter ran around the men. They fingered spear
blades, and looked expectant. The Khan lifted his gaze to Demereen. The
girl sat slumped in the saddle under a cloud of dejection.
"Ah! Demmy. What's to do m'dear? What's to do?" he sighed. "You understand
m'dear? This young puppy of the Kulak MUST needs be given a lesson in
manners."
Demereen's expression was the purest distilled anguish. The Khan covered the
clash of love and duty in his heart by attending to practical matters as he
ever did at moments of emotional crisis. He said gruffly, but not unkindly:
"Look to your decency, girl. Cover that hair."
Demereen lowered her gaze and reached up her bound hands to pull the hood
over her blowing mane. The Khan nodded in satisfaction as she tucked the
last strands under the red leather; then he forced himself to attend to the
unpleasantness at hand. He nodded to Nylan.
To a cacophony of jeering and taunts, Kulaan was quickly stripped of his
jerkin, trousers, shirt and under garments. A broad bladed skinning knife
was drawn, held on high, twisted to catch the sunlight. Nylan looked to his
Lord for the word. The Khan considered, lifted a hand with three fingers
raised. Nylan grinned. The Khan glanced at the face of his daughter. She
was pale, her eyes wide, full of a hopeless pleading. the sight squeezed his
heart; he relented a little; he lowered one finger. The grin on Nylan's face
faded a bit.
The knife flashed down.
Kulaan screamed.
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A hundred yards upstream, The Shivan Witch winced. She let out a tiny squeak
of heartfelt sympathy, and squeezed her eyes shut, not wishing to witness the
boy's disaster.
The gigantic white horse like Prairie Runner, on whose rump the little woman
sat, began to edge forward from concealment in the shadows of the willows.
The Shivan Witch tapped a bare heel imperiously on the muscular thigh.
Obediently, the creature stopped. The great head swung about to fix the
Witch with a questioning look. The plump woman in the sleeveless grey shift
patted the back to reassure the gentle creature. She gathered up a handful
of her streaming black mane. Twirling it into a thick snake, she began
twisting it through her plump fingers in vexation. Her large, black eyes,
full of a timeless ennui, studied Demereen, who sat slumped in the saddle,
watching the excruciating events being played out on the plain.
A mighty jeering rose from the throats of the Khan's men. The Witch's lips
pursed into a tight line of irritation as Nylan held aloft the trophies. Two
long black braids waved in the Breath of Holy Mother. The little fringed
Clan Tokens fluttered at their tips. Kulaan put a hand to his shorn head in
dismay. Two more Bride Thongs gone! At this rate, he'd have no Thongs left
with which to tie the Bonding Knot.
Kulaan was given no time to dwell on his misfortune. Four men grabbed him up
and bundled him to the river bank. Setting him down for a moment, they each
took a new purchase on arms and legs. To great shouts of: "one, two, three,"
they swung him back and forth. On "four," they released him.
Kulaan's naked body arced up over the clumps of reeds at the river's edge,
then down to hit the lazily flowing water with an almighty splash. His yell
was cut off abruptly. When he surfaced, the Khan's men were lining the bank
shouting insults, and laughing with glee.
The river was only some thirty yards across; but it felt to Kulaan, under
those jeering taunts, like thirty miles. At long last, he pushed through the
clumps of reeds lining the opposite shore and dragged himself up the bank.
Dripping, naked, and with bowed head, he set out to walk to his father's
Travelling Camp. He did not look back.
Failed again!
His cheeks burned with the anticipated shame and ignominy that would come
treading at his heels like a faithful dog into the Clan Steading. The table
would be set for the feast of his triumphal return with his new bride. He
could already vision the dreadful hurt look in his mother's eyes and the
expression of exasperation on his father's face. His cousins would be
merciless; their amusement would be unbearable. The mental picture of his
cousines smirking faces made him squirm with embarrassment.
He stumbled to a halt. He couldn't go back. He just couldn't.
From the concealment of the willows, Shiv watched him go. She began to bang
the heel of one of her feet against the animal's thigh, perfectly expressing
her annoyance. The great horse head swung around. The creature fixed her
with an aggrieved eye. She shot the animal an apologetic smile, desisted,
and turned her attention to the activity going on farther down the near bank.
The Khan's men were bundling up the poor boy's possessions, tying them on
his horse, and fixing the braids to the spear hafts just below the points.
They would serve to proclaim, to all who saw, the boy's failure in the Quest.
Perhaps she should have intervened? It would, after all, have been such a
small thing to exercise her power of Glamour. The trouble was, that she had
not the guile to be so discreet without at least two of her sisters to
assist. Her meddling could not have gone un-noticed. She dared not risk the
boy finding out that she had conspired to help him in this particular
situation. There were places where the Glamour could be employed with no
loss of honour; but this was not one of them. He would have felt demeaned by
her assistance, and less of a man. She liked the boy too much to do that to
him. She shook her head sadly, a gesture she had learned from the Sons and
Daughters of Terra.
Out on the plain, the Khan's men had formed up into a line and were starting
for Temple. When they were a respectable distance off, without any signal of
command, the great grey gelding walked out of the shadows into the soft
sunlight to follow them.
Swinging up her legs, Shiv lay down along the back of the Prairie Runner, and
pillowed her head on her hands. Adrift in the expanse of its broad back, she
wriggled into a comfortable position, stretching out luxuriously. Through
half closed eyes, she gazed thoughtfully up into the depth-less blue bowl of
the sky. Her mistake, she now realised, had been in not taking care to
circumvent the meddling of that odious priest, Rasaken. That was a mistake
she intended not to make again.
An intense expression settled on her angular features, as the Shivan
Witch began making new plans to scheme a favourable outcome to Kulaan's
Bride Quest.
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The tall young man and the dun robed priest threaded their way through the
milling throng of colorfully garbed festival goers. A hot sun shone down on
the happy scene around them, from a clear blue sky. Clots of warm air hung
in stifling miasmas among the drab coloured pavilions of the Kulak Clans,
barely stirred by the Breath of Holy Mother. The lazy atmosphere was
redolent with the reek of cook fires, the thronging crowds, ubiquitous
livestock, and was ringing with a chattering bleating cacophony of merriment.
The pair paused by a stall selling sweetmeats and jugs of wine. Leaning on
his shepherd's crook, the priest pushed back the cowl of his dun robes with a
bony hand. Producing a square of brown cloth, he mopped at the sweat beading
his bald pate. The sun had burned that head brown, and wind had weathered
the skin to wrinkled leather. He put the cloth away, and smiled benignly
down at some children eyeing the sweetmeats on the stall. Unfortunately, his
hawk like features turned the friendly expression into a predatory grimace.
The children backed away, the sweets forgotten.
His companion smiled darkly. The expression sat well on his handsome, clean
shaven face. "Well?" he demanded, whilst making a pretense of looking over
the cooked meats and pastries. He made no effort to hide his distaste of the
wares on sale.
"Alas, my Lord Grimlak!" The old priest exclaimed in mock
dismay. "The questing of that young puppy has been - over-taken by
misfortune."
"You don't say?" Grimlak gloated. "Pray tell, Rasaken - what went wrong?"
"Somehow, the Khan learned of the boy's plans."
"And he rode out in defence of the family honour?" Grimlak was openly
skeptical.
"he did. There could have been no doubt that he would."
"Really?" Grimlak questioned. "The man's a fool!" He made his choice from
the stall. Tossing down a silver coin, he picked up a large jug of wine.
Taking a long swig, he lowered the jug, and eyed with distaste the nanny goat
sampling his black woolen trews. He uttered an oath, lashing out at the
harmless animal with a booted foot. He caught it a vicious kick in the ribs.
The nanny goat went sprawling, bleating in terror. It jumped up quickly, and
nuzzled its way into the full skirts of a heavily pregnant girl, who was
passing the stall in company with an older woman.
The girl rounded on Grimlak with a savage snarl of anger. "You dog! What
harm has that poor nanny done to you?"
Grimlak's hand strayed towards the sword at his belt; but the moment he
realised his abuser was a woman, he relaxed. He eyed the girl up and down,
noting the advanced state of pregnancy. An unpleasant coldness glinted in
his black eyes; and a thin, sour smile curled his hairless lip. The girl
shivered under that feral scrutiny. She grunted and clutched at her swollen
belly, as her baby kicked spastically.
"Zamaleen! Do come along girl!" the older woman exhorted. "We mustn't be
late for Devotions - on this of all days!" She glared around at the crowd
watching the matter with considerable interest, and no trace of embarrassment
whatsoever. Even divided by Clan loyalties, as they all too often were, in
adversity, the Kulak people were a single family; a spat between two, was the
concern of all. It was the Kulak way.
Zamaleen bent and coaxed the goat from her skirts. She calmed its fearful
quivering with a gentle stroking hand, before shooing it on its way. She
straightened to level a look of pure malice at the Kulak Lord, before turning
her back on him. Joining hands with the other woman, the pair moved away.
The press of people opened easily to allow them passage.
Grimlak watched them go, his expression one of anger, tinged with a wistful
regret. Sometimes, sometimes it seemed to him that the universe contained
only pregnant women - always their swollen bellies full of other men's
bastards! Muttering an oath against the Goddess, he turned his back on them.
From the middle of his back, Yellow cat-eyes watched the two women departing.
They were set in the snarling tiger head Totem of the Vylian Clan,
embroidered in coloured wools on the back of his jerkin.
Grimlak dismissed the incident from his mind and returned his attention to
the priest, who was watching the pair with an indulgent smile.
"And Kharran rode out against the boy? Are you sure?" Grimlak asked, taking
up the thread of their previous conversation.
"Oh. Quite certain," the old priest insisted. He tucked the crook against
his side and slid his hands into the sleeves of his robe before he spoke
again. "Kharran Khan is a man of honour. Despite being set on marrying off
that daughter of his to the boy to try and patch things up with the Western
Drift - and he does approve of the Quest of that fold born cur - he is not a
man to over look Kulak Law and Custom, particularly where that wilful
daughter of his is concerned."
"So the young whelp's been cut out?"
"Undoubtedly," Rasaken assured. "There's no way that upstart cur can be back
at Temple before nightfall - if he's the balls to come back at all that is -
after this last fiasco!"
"He may be a low fold-spawned cur of the Western Drift," said Grimlak, his
manner suddenly dangerous; "but for all that, the whelp's a tryer, and lacks
the wit to know when he's bested. So, I want this little matter cleared up
by sunset. I want to be a dozen leagues from this cess pit with the baggage
before the parade passes into Temple Grove."
"It will be arranged," Rasaken assured. "I am just now on my way to entreat
Demereen to take evening devotions. We shall stroll together to Temple."
"By way of the practice grounds?" Grimlak inquired.
"Most certainly."
An unpleasant leer settled on Grimlak's lips. Tossing the empty jug aside,
he drew out a leather thong and wound it about his hands like a garrote.
Snapping the thong taunt, to emphasise his words, he said: "I'll be waiting."
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Chapter Two