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.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eleven

The quartet rode clear of the tree fringe, and mounted up a steep rise, on a
winding path of broken pavings.  The way meandered up the low hill like the
ragged skin of some gigantic serpent, sloughed off in the long ago.  Along
both sides, tall, fleshy plants closed in the view.  A distinctive smell was
sharpening the cool night air.

The half-familiar scent made the Doctor's nose twitch.  He reigned in his
'Little Accident' and reached up to pluck one of the sword shaped leaves.  He
crushed it in his fingers.  The pungent odor, filling his nose, made his eyes
water.  The smell set his lively mind to scouring the long, broken racks of
his memories for some elusive thought connected to that smell.  Then a huge
grin split his face, his teeth gleaming in the silver light.  He had just had
an idea.  He did not yet know whether he could make it work, or whether it
would be useful.

He urged his 'Little Accident' on after the others who were already out of
sight around the curve of the path. When he came up to them, they were
reined in at the top before a small grove of trees.  Once, they had been an
ornamental planting, arranged just so for their aesthetic effect; but the
strong life within them had used the long centuries of neglect to good
effect.  Now, it was a tangled wood, overgrown with briars.  Before the
trees, the Khan, Nylan and Clonhilden sat their mounts, gazing out over the
land to the north, each thinking their own thoughts.

From the foot of the hill, the ruins petered out like rocks at the shore of
a sea.  Out on the plain, stretching to the horizon, flickered a myriad camp
fires, like a constellation of dim stars, fallen from heaven.  A murmurous
sound of unseen people came to them, born on the Breath of Holy Mother.  The
fitful breeze made the susurration sound like surf breaking upon the shore.
That air, blowing in from the prairie, tasted of wood smoke, of livestock and
the more earthy smells of humanity, living in too close proximity.

The Doctor urged his mount up beside the trio.  His keener ears could
separate the individual threads of that rich tapestry of sound.  Here a baby
squalled, and was comforted by a mother's embrace; there a cow lowed quietly,
the sound counter-pointed by the gonging of its bell.  Further off, a woman's
voice rose in a wordless song.  Achingly sweet, the sound spread through the
night over the vast congregation of Western Drift Clans.

As the sweet melody died away, the Khan spoke, raising his chin to indicate
the mass of humanity spread below.  "It can't go on, you know," he said, his
voice touched with regret. "But what's to do? I've a fondness for babies,
like the rest; but I'm not so blind that I canna see that all this breedin's
like a wild ride on a mad Runner, galloping us to ruin.  It had a purpose
once. But there's too many of us now, far too many of us, and more coming
every day.  There's bound to be trouble over the Clan Ranges in a situation
like this, Doctor, Bound to be!"

"You really ought to do something about it," offered the Doctor.

"Don't see what anyone can do, myself."

"Someone will have to do something, and soon. You can't go onlike
this.  Someone's got to grasp the nettle.  There are some tough decisions
need taking here and soon if you've to avert a real catastrophe."

"You've the truth of it, Doctor.  I'm doing what I can by this marriage of
me little Demmy to that Western Drift boy, to try and hold off the present
calamity."

"It's a start, I suppose, " the Doctor agreed.  "But that's only treating the
symptoms, You'll still have to do more than just tinkering with the system,
if you want to avoid riding this wild Runner to destruction."

Yes, thought the Khan bitterly, but why me?  for it was evident to him that
the Doctor was not talking of the People generally - but addressing him
particularly.  He bit down on the little spurt of resentment at being
lectured by an Outlander on Kulak problems, and said: "You're right, Doctor.
A way must be found to dismount, and quick, afore the Kulak tears itself
apart in a senseless bloody war.  But what?  That's the question?"

"A way?" the Doctor echoed ever so gently chiding with a raised eyebrow.

The Khan grinned at how clearly he had betrayed his own reluctance to take on
this burden.  "I MUST," he corrected firmly, and sighed with resignation.
For a long moment, he listened to the sounds of his people's happy ignorance,
breaking over them like a gentle surf.  Then he turned a pained look upon
Clonhilden.  "And what's that fool Grimlak playing at Clonny?  By the Barren
Hag, Clonny! He should know better than to chase his demons with all those
Drylanders camped on us.  He'll set the Kulak afire with his madness!" He
shook his head in disbelief.

Clonhilden leaned far over and laid a gentle hand on his arm.  "That's
the nub of the matter - he's demon driven, and is not of a mind to face them
down, no matter the disaster he brings upon the people. He's desperate for a
child.  He can see nothing beyond that.  There's no appealing to his better
sense in this.  Only direct action will get his attention."

"Can't do that, me dear," the Khan shook his head.  "Can't just muscle in and
take me daughter back - I've not the men to hand, not while that dog has the
ruins crawling alive with his masons quarrying the stone hereabouts.  And
with that lot out there..." He raised his chin to indicate the Drylanders.
"...They'll not be slow to make trouble, if they scent a rift in the
Southland Clans." He swore quietly.  "And the boy's no more sense than a love
struck lamb! Can't you make the silly little fool see sense, Me Dear?" the
Khan implored of his Matriarch. "Might just get out of this with our lives if
he lets the bastard have her!  It's true what they say, yer know.  He
couldn't get any bastards on the Goddess herself.  All they've to do is wait
three months and, sure as sheep, he'll turn my Demmy out!  Then the boy can
have her.  We'll still have peace, uneasy as it may be, with the Western
Drift, and the dogs of war will be back on the leash for the time being at
least.  Why can't the boy see sense?"

"He is in love," Clonhilden said quietly.

"What's love got to do with anything?  We're facing war and ruin - you'd
expect a bit of sense - not all this silliness about love."

"Have you never been in love?" Clonhilden asked, a trifle too sharply, unable
to silence the question, or check the bitterness in her voice.  She
regretted the question the moment it was free of her lips.

The Khan turned to study her face in the silver light.  For a long time, he
 just gazed into her round face while the words  in his heart failed to
reach his lips.  At last, he shook his head sadly and urged his
Runner a few yards down the slope, towards the sea of grass.  Clonhilden,
watching him, fell prey to a sudden and terrible fear that the lord of her
love would spur his horse into a gallop, and thunder away, scattering the
gathered host before him, into the vast trackless prairie, away from all the
troubles that beset the Clans, away into the undemanding freedom of the
boundless prairie.  She made to call out; but stilled herself for in truth
 she knew the Khan better than he knew himself.  No matter how much he
desired to go, he could not run away from his responsibilities to the Clans,
no matter how onerous.


"Of course he has known love." she pronounced sadly.  "He is in love...In
love with the Kulak." Clonhilden paused a moment, spreading wide her powerful
arms, as though to embrace the vast sweep of benighted grasslands.  The
chevrons on her upper arms were dark shadows on her skin.  Then she went on
in a declamatory tone, a deep reverence colouring her voice.  "The Great
Mother Kulak!  She spreads her body from the Wall of the World in the west,
with the deserts of the Western Drift at its feet, eight thousand miles to
the Breklands along the margins of the Eastern Sea.  And from the steadings
along the shore of the Inner Sea, three thousand miles north to the Thulian
Mountains.  The Holy Mother Kulak.  Our Goddess, Our Mother!  Our Protector!
Our Provider!  Our Lover!  and Our Life!  She is us.  We are of Her.  We are
One.  And my Lord is in thrall to Her, from the tips of his toes, to the ends
of his braids.  I cannot compete for his love with such a woman as She, for
Her breasts are mountains, and her belly is the boundless prairie, and from
her loins streams forth all the life that is in us.  And she is ours!  Every
mountain, every hill, every rock and stream, every bush and blade of grass,
every inch of the grasslands we call the Kulak, every last nook and hollow is
ours to walk upon, to graze our flocks upon, and to enjoy.  It all belongs to
us!  To every one of us, from the loftiest Lord to the meanest shepherd boy."

" Slowly the embittered woman lowered her arms.  She half turned to
regard the Doctor over her right shoulder.  "No.  Doctor. I cannot compete
with such a woman!  Nor will I seek to try."

The Doctor raised an eyebrow at such a sweeping declaration from Clonhilden.

"It's a grand conceit," said Nylan with a wry amusement.  "Alas, the
thing is more honored in the breach than in actuality.  Us out of Old Earth
have ever been a fractious lot.  It's a marvel the Shivan permit us the run
of their world?"

Overhead, the hub stars that the Kulak knew as the Milk of the Goddess,
glowed like a crown for a world, showering down a glimmering silver radiance
upon the Kulak.  Little First Moon stood sentinel in the east; and her
companion, Little Second Moon held position to the west.  The air thrummed.

The three sat in silence watching the Khan a few yards before them.

At last, the Khan sighed, pulled the head of his horse around and rode past
them without speaking.  They fell in behind him as he wound back down the
hill.  The doctor, taking the rear-most station, slowed his horse until the
others were lost to view.  Then he began to pluck handfuls of the sword
shaped leaves and stuff them into his capacious pockets.  At the bottom of
the hill, he pulled up, waiting until the others were out of sight in the
shadows under the trees, before pulling the head of his 'Little Accident'
around and steering the mare away among the ruins.  He had no idea if he
could find the things necessary to his plan - the ruins had been scavenged
fairly thoroughly over the last couple of thousand years for anything useful;
but he intended to make as thorough search as possible in the hours left
before dawn.

It was the only hope he had for averting a terrible and futile war among the
 Kulak.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------


'You'll ruin that fine cloak, you know, if you get blood on it?" a quiet
voice spoke from behind her, in a light, almost conversational tone.

Marleen started so violently, she nearly fell in to the water.  The point
pricked her skin, starting a dribble of blood down her throat.

"Give me the knife, Marleen."

Marleen unfroze, and glanced over her right shoulder, just in time to see a
darker patch of shadow  ripple into the form of Shiv, as the woman cast off
the glamour.  The Witch took a step forward, and held out an imperious hand.

"Give me the knife, Marleen!"

Marleen took the knife from her throat slowly.  She stared at it a long,
puzzled moment.  "No," she said at last.

Shiv moved around to look into the kneeling girl's face.  There was a hint of
anger in her grave expression.  "This is not the way, Marleen.  The Grey
 Road into the West is not a path for the young to walk, no matter what the
cause."

"You know a better?" Marleen asked, her voice laced with the poison of
bitterness.

"I?  Why, no, child!  Not I...But the Goddess?  Now!  She...She knows many
ways, and Her love knows many roads.  Life can still be sweet, Marleen, so
sweet," Shiv coaxed, her soft voice caressing the air with a gentle
persuasiveness.  "So sweet, Marleen, if you will only live the life she gave
you  - no matter the burden it falls to you to carry."

Still watching the moonlight gleam from the blade, Marleen weighed the
Witch's words with grave unwillingness.  She had settled her soul to this
course.  Despite the will to life that was in her, she still felt a lingering
desire to be done with things, and to walk the Grey Road into the West.  What
was there, after all, without Bryllaan?  A life dedicated to the Goddess?  She
was a Drylander, and as such, held scant true regard for the Goddess.  A life
lived in her service did not appeal.

Shiv stood close, ever watchful.  The forever susurration of the Holy
Mother's Breath in the leaves was stilled, leaving the trees to look on in an
unaccustomed silence, while the girl struggled with conflicting
emotions and desires. The fraught moment dragged out, wanting of resolution.
The world held its breath.

No matter what she thought she desired, in the end, Marleen was forced to
admit to herself the power of the Little Mother's words.  She dropped her
eyes in shame to the water, fixing her gaze on the glimmer of star-lit
silver.  They called that silver stain the Milk of the Goddess.  Around the
edges, the still water mirrored the world, only darker and more shadowed.

"Forgive me, Little Mother," she whispered.

"There is nothing to forgive, child," Shiv said gently.  "Now give me the
knife."

"No." Marleen answered her.  She held up the blade before her eyes a moment,
then, with firm resolution, cast it away.  It fell into the water to be
swallowed up with barely a ripple.

"The blade is tainted with my blood," she declared; "and is cursed with my
despair.  Let Her have it as an offering in penance for my unworthiness"

Shiv's dark eyes lit up.  She chuckled and relaxed the Glamour.  She said:
'Ah.  I knew you were a true daughter of the Goddess, Marleen,"
Shiv smiled.  She leaned in close, brushing her lips over the girl's
cheek in a maternal caress to kiss away the tears.

Of a sudden, she stiffened.  Her nose wrinkled up.  She sniffed
Marleen's cheeks.  She frowned.

"What is it?" Marleen asked, alarmed at the sudden change in the Little
woman's demeanor.

Shiv touched a finger to the tears on the girl's cheek.  She tasted the
dampness on her finger tip with her tongue.  The frown deepened.  "Marleen?
Have you been taking Vellas recently?" she asked.

"No."

Shiv's frown deepened, and became edged with anger.  "Do you know what Vellas
tastes like?"

"No.  I've never been sick enough to have to take it."

"It has many uses child, not just for curing sickness.  Do you know what
effect taking Vellas over a long period will have on a young woman?"

"No.  I'd never even seen Vellas, until I came to the Southland.  The
Medicine Tree will not grow in the Dryland.  So we have to trade for it with
the Southland or the Fen Clans in the east - is something wrong?"

"Yes," said Shiv.  "Very wrong indeed.  By the Holy Mother's Grace!  Someone
will pay for this wickedness!"

"Shiv?  What is it?" Marleen demanded, alarmed.  She had never seen a Shivan
angry before.  Now, the Little Mother was shaking with rage.  She did not
answer; instead, the Witch cocked her head on one side, before stepping away,
and whirling about to peer at the dark ring of trees.

A monstrous shadow stirred there, and came forth from the darkness.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

She would slit Demereen's throat!  Meloven determined.  That would be the
quickest way to put an end to the threat the girl's presence posed.

Propped against the wheel of a wagon in the concealing shadows beyond the
fire light of the camp, Meloven fingered the knife stolen from the Pewit
brat.  It could be left to cry up the hunt in that direction, and carry any
suspicion away from herself.  The whining little tramp would make the perfect
scapegoat; and, anyway, she had it coming to her.

The one real problem with her hastily devised plan was: how to get the Bridal
Chaperones out of the way?  However she managed it, the thing had to be done
tonight.  Tomorrow, Grimlak would take Demereen to wife in Bride Quest.  He'd
been away at the Festival for ten days now, and not getting his daily dose of
Vellas.  By this time, he'd be fertile as any of his prize rams - and what if
he'd already been in the brat?

Grimlak was never one to observe the proprieties, if they did not suit him.
The brat might already be harboring his bastard, putting her in an impossible
position.

The Breath of Holy Mother came winnowing over the grasses, to tug at her
braids.  The gentle zyphre brought the excited bustle of the camp to her,
where she sat.  The air was full of all the familiar things she had striven
so hard to cling to.  The breeze bustled on through the trees, bearing the
smells of cooking and merry voices from around the blazing fires.  The smell
of baking for the nuptial feast made Meloven's stomach turnover.

She gripped the knife with grim determination.  No one was going to take this
away from her.  No one!

If only her brother had not looked with such distaste upon her proposal that
he take her formally into his bed?  That would have ensured her position; and
she could have made him happy, because she would have gladly suffered his
brutality, to bear the children he craved.  The law did allow such, in
extreme situations; and what constituted an 'extreme' situation was always
open to debate; but he had flown into a rage when she broached the subject,
and beaten her so soundly that she'd been unable to walk without limping for
a week.  She knew never to try that tack again.

So she had begun to poison him with Vellas . It was his own fault.  She could
not fathom why she should have to suffer such loss of status before the women
over his fastidiousness.  Life was so unfair to her.  All she wanted, all
she'd ever wanted, was to be confirmed in her rightful position as Matriarch
of a premier Southlands Clan.

Was that too much to ask of the Goddess?

Moved to sudden melodrama by her plight, she cried out:  "Oh Goddess! Help
ne!" and ran the blade over her palm.  Holding out the cut hand, she allowed
the blood to drip into the grass - a sanguinary libation to the Goddess.

It seems the Goddess was hearing petitions tonight, for over by the cellar,
there was some kind of commotion.  The three Bridal Chaperones were emerging
from the entrance, and starting off into the dark, moving with an odd
shambling gait.

What a stroke of luck!  Truly, the Goddess rode with her on this desperate
venture.  Else, why had they abandoned their solemn duty?  She'd never have
thought it of those three old biddies.  Duty to the Clan Lord was almost as
powerful an influence on them as the Goddess.

The boy set to guard the cellar, called out to them; but his inquiry went
unanswered.  He watched the three women move away into the shadows, uncertain
as to what he should do.  In moments, only the boy remained in her path to
salvation; and he, she knew, had other things on his mind.  One of the girls
had been teasing and flirting with him all evening.  It would be only a
matter of time before they slipped away into the ruins together.

Stanching the flow of blood in her blouse, she waited with growing impatience
for nature to take its course.  The wait seemed interminable, beset with the
fear that the Chaperones would return.  At last, the pair, wrapped in each
other's arms, crept away into the shadows.

A fierce surge of exultation set Meloven's heart to pounding.  she rose and
began drifting towards the cellar, a slow smile easing the lines of strain
that had eaten into her face since the return of her brother.

That had been a bad moment.  Grimlak had come riding back into camp, leading
a runner with a bound Demereen tied on the saddle.  He had proclaimed Bride
Quest.  It had been the first moment of real terror that Meloven had
experienced.  In that instant, she had convinced herself that he had found
her out.  She'd wet herself in pure fright, and had barely been able to
stammer out the formal welcome, almost spilling the tall pitcher of wine
laced with Vellas .  The sense of relief when his fierce expression had
softened as he accepted the welcome cup, had not entirely convinced her that
her life was not ended.  If he had really found out?  then by this time, her
broken corpse would be half way to the Thulian mountains, dragged by the
ankles behind his prize stallion.

Reaching the entry to the cellar, she slipped the knife out of sight and took
a quick glance round to make sure she was not observed.  Then Meloven stepped
through the entry, and started down the steps into the lambent orange gloom.
At the bottom, she paused to peer round, saw Demereen, perched on a broken
stub of pillar, and moved quickly to her.  Demereen watched her approach
incuriously.

Without a word, Meloven slid around behind her left shoulder.  The bells and
coins jingled as she took a handful of Marleen's braided hair. With her other
hand, she gripped the skinning knife, her heart pounding with excitement.
When she drew the knife forth, her hands trembled so violently she almost
fumbled the blade.  One quick slash, and she would be safe. Meloven made to
draw the girl's head back, exposing the throat.  At the same moment, she
raised the blade to slash.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

At the very moment the hulking shadow emerged from the dark under the trees,
Second Little Moon peeped out from behind an errant cloud, shooting silver
streamers through the branches.  At sight of the silver enreathed figure,
Marleen's nightmare became a rapturous dream.  The menacing shape was
transformed by the moon beams into Bryllaan, leading a saddled prairie runner.
Her love had a vast grin on his face as he paused under the canopy of
rustling leaves.

"Go to him, child," urged the Shivan; but Marleen needed no urging.  Already
she was running to him and flinging herself into his waiting arms.  They came
together in the friendly dark under the trees.

In the moonlight beyond, the Prairie Runner pawed the ground in agitation,
disturbed by the strong emotions flooding its sensitive mind.  The great
beast plucked fretfully at the lush grass; but spat it out again, and turned
its head to peer at the entwined couple.  They clung, and clutched, and
kissed for a long time.

At last Bryllaan broke the passionate embrace.  He held Marleen out at arms
length and studied her face in the silven gloom. He shook his head slowly,
wonderingly, and made to kiss her again.  By dint of a great effort of will,
he held off and said: "Marleen, you must go now, before it's too late."

"Not yet," whispered the breathless girl, sliding an arm about his neck.  She
pulled his mouth down onto hers for another long, lingering kiss.

Bryllaan's will faltered.  He gave himself up to the caress once more,
enjoying the taste of her urgent mouth. Then his practical mind rallied,
reasserting its good sense.  Again, he pushed her out at arms length,
noticing as her eyes flicked open, how the light of the Little Moons made
them shine.  His heart did a painful flip flop, and he found himself
struggling with desire again.

"Marleen," he got out at last.  "You must go now!"

She gazed deep into his eyes, her tongue tip dabbling along her lips, seeking
to savor the very last remembrance of the kiss.

Bryllaan, holding her shoulders, shook her gently.  "Marleen!  You must go."

"Do you love me?" she asked, ignoring his urging.

Bryllaan sighed in exasperation.  "Of course."

"Say it," Marleen demanded, her voice possessed of a savage strength.  "I
want to hear you say it." She took his left hand and lifted the fingers to
her lips, kissing them each in turn, while looking up at him from under
lowered lids.  Bryllaan gasped at the sensuality of the caress; it was almost
more than he could stand - to send her away; but he must, or there would be
more trouble than either could handle.

"Of course I love you, Marleen.  I have always loved you. Right from the
moment at your father's camp."

A light of such intensity flamed in Marleen's eyes that Bryllaan knew a tiny
frisson of fear.

 "Yeeeessssss.  Oh, yeeeessss!" Marleen breathed out in a long, ecstatic
sigh; and the trees took up the sound, giving voice to her joy in a frenzied
rustling.

"Marleen, you must go, now!"

She nodded.  "I know," she husked in a dreamy voice.

"It will only be for a little while," Bryllaan assured.  "Just until after
Grimlak's formal declaration.   Then..."

Bryllaan broke off; seeing that dreamy look, he grew uncertain that she had
understood the urgency in the moment.  He shook her gently.  "Marleen?  You
must go."

Her rapture broke.  She gripped his forearms, suddenly desperate, as reality
broke in on her private world of joy.  "Come with me!  Bryllaan!  Come with me
now.  We can go together."

The rustling over their head died away into stillness.  The temptation was
too much.  Pain replaced the shining light in his face.  He knew he would
break his bond.  She knew that she had the power to command him.  He would be
less of a man when he capitulated to her entreaty; but she cared not at all
for that.  She wanted him alive, and in her arms, not dead in some stupid
male madness.

"I can't," he quavered.  "You know I can't!  I am bonded to Grimlak."

She gripped his arms fiercely.  "Bryllaan.  Please..."

At that moment, his gaze went past her, to the diminutive figure standing
beside the looming bulk of the Runner.  The Shivan was watching him
impassively.  on her left shoulder, perched a grass mouse.  The tiny creature
was sitting back on its haunches, regarding him steadily through a screen of
flickering whiskers.

Neither the mouse, nor the Shivan condemned.  Had they done so, he knew that
he would have chosen differently.

A long shiver of resolution went through him.

Sensing in that soul's shiver, the failure of her play for his life, Marleen
squeezed her eyes shut, letting out a wordless moan of grief and loss.

"No," Bryllaan said with resolution. "Marleen.  I am bonded."

She flung herself into his arms.  They hugged a long moment then, as it was
the only option, she drew back resolved to be brave.  With a silent prayer to
the Goddess, she acknowledged the stern practicalities to which all women of
the kulak were hair.

She touched his lips one last time with tender fingers, then drew back.
Turning a scalding look of resentment on the Shivan, Marleen moved to the
Runner.  Bryllaan hefted her into the saddle.  Marleen urged the runner on.
She dare not speak nor meet Bryllaan's troubled gaze. Instead, she urged the
runner forward and went away among the ruins, without looking back.

Bryllaan, watching her go, thought his heart would break.  He was on the point
of running after her into the dark, when a tiny hand slipped into his ,
stiffening his resolve.

He looked down into the sharp featured face.  For the first time in his life,
he feel hatred, hot and acid in his soul.

"You are a good man, Bryllaan of the Curlews.  A good man."

"I am a dead man," he said in answer.

The Shivan nodded.  "Perhaps.  But that makes you no less good a man."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Meloven!"

Meloven started violently, and froze, the knife half drawn.  She fought down
the guilty panic that set the fine down all over her body tingling.  As
casual as she was able, she slipped the knife back into her shirt, and looked
up to see Olgen, half way down the steps.  The older woman carried a tray
laden with wine jug and cups.  The woman was glaring at her with open
suspicion.

"What are you doing here, Meloven?" Olgen demanded, coming the rest of the
way down the steps.  She set the tray on the table.  "And where is Khullen
and Khallen?"

For an instant, Meloven was caught flat-footed by the question.  Then,
gathering her composure, she moved casually away from Demereen.  Knowing that
attack was the only weapon which might divert Olgen's suspicions, she
demanded: "I might ask you the same thing?  Why did you abandon your Goddess
Given Duty?  You know how important this Bride Quest is to my brother?  He
will have you flayed alive for this dereliction."

Olgen said nothing.  When she tried to answer Meloven's accusation, she found
that she could not recall why she had abandoned her duty.  Normally, there
would have been no trouble dealing with the vicious woman, for whom she had
scant regard; but the puzzlement and confusion that clouded her mind had
knocked her right off her stride.

"Well?" Meloven demanded, sensing that she had the woman at a disadvantage
for once.  This might just turn out alright after all.  "I think you had
better go and find them? Don't you?  There's no reason why my brother should
discover your laxness in this, if you find them quickly, and bring them back.
Now go and find those two."

"Yes, of course," Olgen muttered distractedly.  " I suppose I'd best fetch
them; or they're bound to catch the sharp edge of your brother's anger."

Demereen, who had come late to the realisation of her mortal peril, was
suddenly certain that the moment Olgen was out of sight, she would be in a
fight for her life.  She watched in mounting horror as the older woman moved
to the steps, and began to mount.  She opened her mouth to implore the woman
not to leave; but Olgen had already paused on the steps.

The shrewed woman was examining Meloven with a suspicious glare. She
transferred her gaze to the chained girl a moment, noting the silent plea.
The vague feelings of unease and danger that had sprang upon her at sight of
Meloven standing over the girl, crystalised into sharp focus.

There was murder in the air.

The fact was as plain as the panic in Meloven's face.  Neither was it hard to
work out why?  Grimlak's refusal of his sister's scandalous proposition, and
the severe beating, were well known about camp.  As was Meloven's treatment
of Marleen; and the reason for that.

Olgen had no intention of leaving this innocent girl to face Meloven's
murderous desperation alone.

"I think I'll stay," she said slowly, a note of challenge in her tone, daring
Meloven to contradict her.

Demereen let out an audible sigh, and relaxed.  Meloven, with panicky
desperation flaming in her eyes, moved over to the table where Olgen was
pouring out a cup of wine.  The plan was coming apart in her hands.  She had
even less latitude for manouvere now.  As far as she was concerned, the
interferring old busy-body had just invited her own death.  The Pewit brat
was going to commit two murders tonight.

As Meloven came up, Olgen thrust the beaker of wine at her. "Here! Now!  If
you've no mind to save your aunts a thrashing, make yourself useful, and
serve our honored guest."

Insistently, Olgen pressed the cup into Meloven's hand, letting it go, giving
her no time to think.  Her other hand was resting lightly on the hilt of the
skinning knife she had equipped herself with before shooing Marleen off the
camp.

More or less by instinct, Meloven took the cup.  By the time she had
recovered her poise, the deadly moment of determination had frittereditself
away.  There was nothing to be done but serve the brat.  In a fever of
frustration, Meloven brought the drink over to the girl.

Demereen was watching this battle of will with the kind of absorbed
fascination one gave to a pair of sparring vipers.  She had the knife, yes;
but she could not see how it might be employed.  Snuggled well down between
her breasts, it could not be drawn quickly.  If she did somehow manage to get
it clear before Meloven realised, what then?  It would only serve to force
the woman's hand; and the impasse would be broken.  All hidden intents would
be in plain view; and she would be in a fight for her life with her legs
manacled.  Olgen was openly suspicious; and she looked quite capable.  Even
so, Demereen really didn't fancy her chances in a three-way fight.  Most
likely though, Meloven would stick her before Olgen could come to her aid.

What she needed was to get the knife into a position where it was ready to be
drawn at a moment's notice - but how to do that unobtrusively?  Both women
were watching her, and each other, like hawks.  She might turn
away; but even with Olgen present, she really didn't fancy exposing her back
to the woman.

With a sinking heart, Demereen realised that the knife so unknowingly gifted
to her by Olgen, would be of no use in this stand off.  Dumbly, she accepted
the wine, smiling wanly at Meloven.

It was going to be a long night.



-----------------------------------------------------------------------------