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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Twelve

The stench of rotting flesh, somewhere nearby, gave the Doctor hope.  He'd
been uncertain of his exact location, until the moment he caught the whiff of
corruption in his nostrils .  That stench of rotting meat was always a good
indicator that Strangle Vine was close.  The Daleks planted the loathsome,
semi-sentient, vegetables around their installations.  The net of hidden
tendrils, lined with poisonous thorns, made an effective addition to the
usual electronic defences.

The ruins of Nooplennes would have been thoroughly scavenged over the last
two thousand years; but the doctor was hoping that the presence of Strangle
Vine might have discouraged the masons, and other scavengers, from the area
around the university campus.

Though it had been only a couple of years since he'd last come this way, more
than two thousand years had passed in this place.  The grandiose buildings of
the university complex had been in ruins then too, crushed by the
overwhelming onslaught of the invasion; but at that time, the carnage had
been fresh, the shattered shards of buildings standing stark against a pall
of black smoke shutting out the sky.  The softening of the harsh lines by the
centuries of weathering, and the green coat of growing things it now wore,
had confused his recollection.

The mare nickered nervously, her nostrils flaring wide at the stench of
death.  Laying her ears flat, she backed up skittishly, and tried to turn
back into the trees.  The Doctor patted her neck, making soothing sounds, to
calm the frightened beast.  It was unreasonable to expect the game little
mare to carry him further; from here on, he would have to walk, and brave the
lurking Strangle Vines.

Dismounting, the Doctor picked his way among the overgrown masonry, strewn
about the grand plaza.  He kept a wary eye out for the concealed tentacles of
the murderous plants.  The ventilation shaft he, and the small group of
desperate humanity, had used to gain entry to the Dalek complex, so long ago,
had surfaced somewhere in the south east corner.

Something "thwipped" in the air. A poison-barbed tendril locked about his
neck.  Before the Doctor could get a hand to the Strangle Vine, the explosive
retraction of a successfully cast vine, jerked him from his feet.  He was
dragged a dozen yards,  kicking and struggling, before his desperately
flailing hands caught the stem of a bush.  The tough little plant was growing
up from under a tilted paving slab.

The vine began jerking at him trying to dislodge his grip.  The Doctor clung
on grimly.  For long seconds, the titanic tug of war swayed back and forth,
while the Doctor slowly strangled; and the roots of the bush worked free from
the thin soil over laying the paving.  He was acutely aware that, if the
plant got him to where it's mouth tendrils could reach, even his tremendous
strength would not be sufficient to stop it from dragging him right into the
nest of grinding thorns around the stomach.

With a sudden tearing, the bush came free.  A shower of earth and stones came
up with the roots, leaving a dark hole in the ground.  The Doctor was dragged
several more yards.  Then he wedged tight in a narrow gap between a stumpy
tree, and a block of masonry.

Thwarted in its efforts to drag the prey to the mouth, the carnivorous plant
tightened its grip, seeking to drive its poison thorns deep into the flesh.
Only the fact that it had gone around the scarf, had so far prevented the
barbs of the vine from gouging into the Doctor's neck.

Feeling around for some weapon, his left hand chanced upon a fragment of
broken masonry.  It had no edge; but at least he had something with which to
beat at the vine.  While he was attempting to crush the vine against the
larger block, the "thwipping" came again.  A vine, from another plant,
tightened around his right foot.  It jerked viciously, trying to haul him in
the opposite direction.  At that moment, the first vine parted.

Once more, the Doctor found himself scraping painfully over the ground.  With
a desperate lunge, the Doctor sat up, and grabbed for the vine entangling his
foot.  Of a sudden, he found himself sitting on empty air.  He let out a
surprised yell.  Arms flailing, he dropped into darkness.

The jerk, as his head-long plunge was momentarily arrested, almost ripped out
his leg. His head cracked painfully against the metal lining of the shaft,
stunning him.  The tendril snapped. The Doctor tumbled several feet, landing
head-down on a pile of broken masonry.  He lay there a long moment,
collecting himself, before scrambling unsteadily to his feet.  Dusting off
his coat, he peered up the shaft at the little ragged patch of sky, twenty
feet overhead. He grinned broadly.  Well!  He'd found his ventilation shaft -
though not quite in the way intended.

At that moment, a thin strand flicked across the patch of sky, silvered with
the Milk of the Goddess.  The tendril returned, and began to grope its way
down the shaft.  This deep underground, he was safe from the things; but if
he found what he was seeking, he'd still have to climb back out this way,
because all other entrances had been blocked in the attack.  There were
hand-holds a plenty, so the climb shouldn't be too taxing; but some way would
still have to be found of dealing with those wretched plants.  Meanwhile,
there might just be other things, equally lethal, down here with him.

Suddenly, an eerie blue light built up around him.  The Doctor spun round, to
find himself staring down the wrong end of a Dalek blaster.  The machine
creature was covering him from ten yards away along the tunnel,  its air of
deadly menace enhanced by the dim blue of the emergency lighting.

The Doctor raised his hands, and slithered awkwardly down the pile of
rubbish.  "I surrender," he declared nonchalantly.

The Dalek did not move.  Grinning at the monster, the Doctor dropped his
arms, and strolled up the corridor towards the silent machine.  Sidling
around it, he absently patted the dome, raising a cloud of dust from the long
dead creature.

He paused at the intersection beyond, undecided as to which way to go.  Last
time he'd been in this tunnel, it had been a madhouse of Dalek weapons fire
and the screams of the dying.  He'd been too busy trying to stay alive long
enough to wreck the monstrous plans they proposed for the inhabitants of this
planet, to take careful note of his surroundings.  He chose left, because the
blaster scoring along the walls seemed heavier in that direction.  He started
off down the tunnel.

Immediately, he stumbled over the crushed remains of a skeleton, sprawled
across the floor in a tatter of rotted rags.  He paused, a look of pain
crossing his face, as the frightful memories surged up within his mind.
There had been so many who had fallen in the desperate fight for control of
the complex.  It troubled him that he could no longer remember them in any
detail.

Somewhere, something in the deserted base shifted with a low pattering sound.

Brought back with a start to the present, the Doctor shook his head, to
dislodge the savage memories of the past. He moved on.

From a dark corner, a small shadowed form watched him go with bright, beady
eyes.

After five minutes of wandering the ravaged corridors, the Doctor's attention
was caught by a small tubular object, lying beside the wall.  He stooped, and
picked it up.

"So! That's where I dropped it?" he muttered, turning the sonic screwdriver
over in his hand.  Brushing off the dust of millennia, he flipped the
activation switch, and was rewarded by a low hum of power.  He grinned, and
popped it in his pocket. He was on the right track.

He moved on through the complex, seeking a particular portal.  At every
intersection, evidence of the suicidal struggle that had raged through the
tunnels all those years ago, lay in pathetic scatters of bones.  Here and
there among the fallen, a silent Dalek brooded over the carnage, in the
eerie gloom.

It had been a fierce struggle; the cost had been high - too high?

No! The price of victory over those monstrous machine creatures could never
be set too high!

The Doctor pressed on, coming at length to the place he sought. The solid
slab shutting off the portal had a sharply functional design incised in the
grey metal.  Holding out his recently recovered sonic screwdriver to the
locking panel, he activated it.  The screwdriver whined; the lock clicked;
and the panel slid smoothly aside.  Monstrous and heartless as they were, you
had to concede one thing to the Daleks - their technology was superb.  Even
after two thousand years, the door mechanism was in perfect condition.

His cheerful grin restored, the Doctor passed through the portal.  Lights
came up in the hallway beyond, illuminating the ante chamber to the
biological laboratory complex.  The lab had been the centre of the Dalek
operation on this world.  It was vast, and might well not contain anything
useful to his plan.  Getting this far had been the easy bit.

If he could not find what he needed here, then it was unlikely that it
existed anywhere on this planet.  Still, he wasn't going to find that out by
standing here, mulling over the monstrous ingenuity and industry of the
Daleks.  Winding his scarf, and shoving hands deep in the pockets of his
great coat, he set off in search of a cure for this world's ills.

The first thing he found was the computer room, silent and sterile. It gave
him an idea.  Going to one of the terminals, he set about switching
the emergency lighting power to the dormant machine mind.  There were dangers
in resurrecting the consciousness of the central bio-computer; but he felt
justified in taking them.

The room was plunged into darkness, as all available power was shunted to the
computer.  For long seconds, nothing happened.  Probably, too much time had
elapsed since the last activation? Or it had been damaged in the fight? The
Doctor didn't know.  He was about to restore the power to the lights, when
the panel came alive.

A flicker of activity rippled over the terminal in a regimented pattern.  The
winking froze.  There was a short pause, before the light show resumed.
Now, the pattern was chaotic, as though the controlling mind was overwhelmed
with sudden panic.  After a few seconds, the pattern regained a semblance of
its former regimentation.  There came a loud rasping crackle, like some
ancient creature clearing its throat.  A harsh voice, vaguely female, rattled
in the stale air.

"You are the Doctor!" it stated.  "You are a prisoner of the Daleks.  You..."

 "Yes, yes!" the Doctor interrupted impatiently.  "I know all that.  I really
don't have time for all the usual pleasantries. Now, be a good fellow, would
you, and direct me to the   Bio-Engineering section?"

"..Are our prisoner.  You will obey the Daleks.  Or you..."

"Yes, yes, I know!" the Doctor interrupted again.  "I will be exterminated!"

He sighed, and considered shutting down the computer.  Even the bio-grafted
controller units could be as single minded as the Daleks themselves.  The
chances of eliciting the information he needed from this one seemed remote;
but he decided to give it another try.  Wondering who this bio-graft might
once have been?  and whether it might give him an edge?  he demanded: "How do
I get to the Bio-Engineering section?"

Ignoring him, the computer ploughed on with its predictable litany of Dalek
supremacy.  "...Exterminated.  Nothing will be permitted to interrupt the
Dalek plans.  The planet will be conquered!  The pacification of the
inhabitants will proceed with maximum efficiency ..."

"Oh, really?  Look!  Do you know what's been going on in the world outside
while you've been skulking down here?"

There came a long pause, filled only by the echoing emptiness of centuries.
When the voice came again, the feminine timbre was more pronounced.  "That
information is unknown.  Our last external tele-sensory input failed two
hundred and ten thousand six hundred and five days ago.  We have no
information external to ourselves since that time."

"But do you have enough information to extrapolate how the situation on this
planet has developed over the last...ah?...five centuries?"

After considering this for a few seconds, the computer stated in its former
machine delivery: "The Daleks are the supreme beings?  You will obey the
Daleks."

"Alright!  We've covered that!  Now?  Do you understand how things stand in
the world above?"

There was another lengthy pause, before the computer conceded reluctantly:
"There has been a minor set-back to our plans.  We shall recover.  We shall
conquer.  We shall..."

"Minor set-back?" An utter disaster, I'd call it."

"The Daleks cannot be defeated.  The Daleks are the Supreme Beings."

The Doctor sighed.  "So, I take it you're not going to help?"

"It is forbidden to give information to the slave races."

"Alright," the Doctor shrugged.  "If that's your last word on the matter?
Perhaps a few adjustments to your imperatives programming will make you a
little more co-operative?" He placed a hand, palm down, over one of the
lighted touch panels, and made a series of swooping motions.

"Alert!  Alert!  Unauthorised access is being attempted!  You will desist!
You will!..."

"There now, doesn't that feel better without all those ridiculous
restraints?" the Doctor asked cheerfully.  "Now!  Tell me the way to the
Bio-Engineering section, there's a good chap." Another long silence
lengthened in the dark room.  "I'm waiting," prompted the Doctor.  Still the
computer remained dumb.  "Oh well.  If you're going to sulk?..." Shoving
hands into the pockets of his great coat, the Doctor started for the door.

"You will remain.  You are our prisoner.  You will obey.  You...You..."
Something stuttered in the system.  When the voice resumed, it was fully the
deep melodious voice of a young woman, laced with panic.  "Doctor?  Don't
leave me!  Please don't leave me!"

He paused at the door, grinning.  "Ready to tell?"

"Please do not go!  Please don't leave me alone here. I am so lonely."

"Are you prepared to tell me what I want to know?"


There was a short, tense pause.  Then the voice said: "Yes.  But on one
condition."

"Which is?"

"That you forgive me?"

"Forgive you?  For what?"

"It's all my fault.  All this suffering is because of my petty jealousies.  I
used to be Doctor Ruth Davis once, Professor of Bio-Engineering at the
University of Nooplennes.  I was a lecturer here, when the Daleks invaded."

Sudden compassion touched the Doctor's features.  "And they used you as a
bio-graft?"

"Feel no pity for me, Doctor.  I deserved my fate.  I betrayed my people to
the Daleks.  I had no high motives.  I just wanted to get back at the faculty
for an imagined slight.  So, I let the Daleks in." The woman's voice paused,
then added.  "It is such a fitting fate, you would almost suspect they
understand irony."

The Doctor waited out another long pause, while the bitter echoes of twenty
centuries of Ruth Davis's horded up regret, resonated quietly in the room.
At last the voice came again.

"Can you find it in your heart to forgive me, Doctor, for what I did?  I am
aware that I do not deserve the least bit of consideration; but I ache for
forgiveness.  There has been none to come here in all the twenty centuries of
whom I might beg such a gift.  I have brooded on my wickedness here in the
dark all those twenty centuries.  And the restrictions set by my masters did
not even permit me regret.  Forgive me Doctor?  Please?  It is unbearable not
to have the forgiveness of a fellow being."

Listening to that tortured plea from the soul, the Doctor was touched by the
woman's suffering.  He said softly, with utter sincerity: "I forgive you,
Ruth Davis."

The screen lit up with a schematic of the complex.  A blue dot marked his
position.  There was a red line leading down through the levels and
corridors, to the Bio-Engineering section.  The Doctor took in the diagram at
a glance.  He nodded slowly and said with gentleness.  "Thank you."

"Save my people, Doctor." the voice of the long dead Ruth Davis
urged. "Please save my people."

A sharp crackle grated in the room; and the voice stopped speaking.  A
terrible, hollow sigh soughed in the still air.  The terminal went dead under
his hands; and the emergency lights flickered to life.

The dim blue illumination revealed a tiny grass mouse, sitting on its
haunches in a corner.  Clutched in its paws, were the chewed through ends of
a cable.  Its beady black eyes were staring past the Doctor, to the life-less
terminal.  Almost, the mouse seemed to nod its head in satisfaction.  As the
last echoes of that centuries sad sigh sank into silence, it dropped to all
fours and scuttled from sight.

The Doctor patted the edge of the terminal, and turned to find his way to the
labs.  In minutes, he was inside the Bio-Engineering section, rooting around
for the things he needed.

 It took less than an hour to find everything. He quickly assembled the
equipment on a work bench. When the lash-up of complicated laboratory
glassware was set to his satisfaction, he took out the bunch of Vellas
leaves.  Laying them in a transparent tray at one end of the lash-up, he
poured a clear solution over them.  Noxious yellow fumes boiled into the air,
making the Doctor cough.  He quickly slid a panel over the tray, and wafted
the noxious fumes away with a hand.

The process was completely automated; all he had to do now was wait.

He strolled across to an empty bench.  Sliding onto the top, he swung up his
legs, and settled comfortably against a support.  Fishing in his coat pocket,
he took out a bag of jelly babies, selected a red one, and popped it in his
mouth.  He reached up to tilt his hat down over his eyes, realised that it
had been lost in the fight with the plant, and clasped hands over his chest.
Wiggling into a comfortable position, the Doctor closed his eyes.  For the
next five hours, he remained like that, supine and unmoving, on the
make-shift bed.

Then, some critical point was reached in the process.  An insistent alarm
shrilled for attention.  The Doctor sat bolt upright.

"No!  Don't touch that, Brigadier!" he yelled, frowned, and looked around
himself.  The array of glassware was glowing with a pale luminescence in the
blue gloom.  Running a distracted hand through his brown curls, the Time Lord
hopped down from the bench, and went to inspect the results of his handiwork.
Everything looked fine.  A large glass flask standing at one end was three
quarters full of a palely glowing liquid.

"Should be enough to do the trick," he muttered, and turned to gather up the
smaller containers he'd set ready.

Ten minutes later, a wildly flapping scarecrow popped from the ground in the
grand plaza.  It jigged and capered in the air, ragged streamers of cloth
fluttering.  Instantly, it became the centre of a furious storm of lashing
tendrils.  They snatched at the jigging figure, trying to drag the bundle of
rags in five different directions at once.  The acrid smell of vented poison
stung the air.

In the mouth of the shaft, the Doctor let go of the stick on which he'd tied
the rags.  He began to jerk on the rope attached to the stick, inciting the
vines into a frenzy.  More an more tendrils were cast, as the different
plants tried to claim the prize.

Judging the moment, the Doctor scrambled from the shaft, dragging a bulging
sack.  He sprinted for his life.  Vines lashed at him.  One caught the sack,
nearly snatching it from his grasp.  Another entangled in his scarf, almost
jerking him from his feet.  With desperate haste, he clawed the scarf from
around his neck.  He ran on, ducking and weaving.  A plant whipped a tendril
round his arm.  Luckily, it was only a small one at the edge of the clump.
The Doctor powered on, his great strength ripping the tendril from the root.
The green vine trailed in his wake, still writhing.

Gaining the trees, he paused and looked back.  In the silver light, a furious
battle was raging for possession of the rags.  He'd lost his hat and scarf in
the nights adventure; but in the circumstances, the Doctor considered that a
small price to pay.

The mare was still waiting nervously, further back under the whispering
trees.  She nuzzled him with evident relief when he went to her.  Patting and
soothing the loyal creature, the Doctor swung up into the saddle, and pulled
her head around in the direction of the place appointed for the challenge.

There was a lot of work still to do, if he was to save these people from
their madness. Already in the east, first light of the new day was paling the
sky.

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The Khan stepped through the flap of his pavilion, into the golden rays of
the new risen sun.  He held the flap aside for Clonhilden, taking the
opportunity of gripping his love's hand, ostensibly to assist her, but in
reality to enjoy one last moment of private affection before the day's grisly
business.  Clonhilden smiled a sad smile, gently disengaging his hand.

The Khan indulged in one last, lingering examination of the woman he had
always loved.  He was fully aware of the groups of men coagulating around the
edges of the cleared space, but could see no point in rushing headlong to
meet the disaster.  With resolution, he put the matter from his mind.  After
all, he would never look upon this woman's familiar features again - for
today he would die!

Today a lot of good men were going to die.

At last, he acknowledged the inevitability of man's madness.  He turned from
Clonhilden.  The Doctor, Nylan and a small retinue fell in beside him.
Together, the party made their way towards the make-shift arena.  As they
strolled, the Khan peered up at the early morning sky.  The deep blue was
dotted with cotton wool puffs, touched with orange from the dawn sun.

"It's a fine morning," he observed, appreciatively.  "Seems a pity to have to
die on such a fine morning."

The Doctor glanced all around at the men gathering for the challenge.
Grimlak's masonry scavengers clustered in a loose group. They numbered around
four hundred, and looked ill at ease as they watched the Drylanders drifting
in in small groups.  They numbered a thousand already, the Doctor guessed;
and more were coming in all the time. They took up positions on the ruins
encircling the open area.

"Why should anyone die?" The Doctor asked of Nylan.  "Wouldn't it be better
to settle this without fighting?"

"Don't see how," the Khan said, eyeing the multitudes of Western Drift,
forming a dark line against the sky. "The boy'll not put aside the Challenge,
Grimlak will not put aside his Bride Quest.  So, it's a fight."

"And if it's a fight?" Nylan took up, "then no matter the outcome?  we die."

"Oh?" the Doctor inquired.

Nylan nodded.  "Certain.  The boy's going to die.  When Grimlak sticks him,
then the Southland Clans'll be in Blood Feud with the Western Drift." He
waved a hand to indicate the groups of hard eyed men, their braids tied
back in the warriors pony-tail, and all wearing weapons.  "They outnumber the
Southland here, and they'll not be slow to take advantage.  They'll attack
for certain."

"And if Kulaan kills Grimlak?" the Doctor persisted.

"Won't happen," grunted the Khan.  "But, if by some miracle of the
Goddess?...Well!  We die anyway!" He nodded to the group of Grimlak's people.
"They'll not be able to just stand by.  They can't let a Southland
Flock-Master be killed on his home pasture, and do nothing? There'll be a
fight.  And we'll be caught right in the middle."

The Doctor nodded thoughtfully.  "That's just about how I see it," he
admitted.  It seemed an intervention in local politics was going to be
inevitable, if there was to be any chance of averting the impending massacre.
He'd cobbled together a plan of sorts; but all it would take to wreck the
night's work, was for the wind to change.  A little anxiously, the Doctor
checked the way the lance pennants were streaming.  He grimaced in
consternation.  Things didn't look too promising.

A ripple of interest ran around the gathered multitudes.  Across from where
the Doctor stood with the Khan, a small retinue came out of the group of
Vylian Clansmen, led by Grimlak.  Behind him, surrounded by some of his
women, came Demereen.

The Khan's daughter looked pale in the harsh morning light.  She glanced once
to her father, then looked to the small knot of men surrounding Kulaan.  The
look on his daughter's face wrung the Khan's heart strings.  For one wild
moment of utter insanity, he considered grabbing a mount and riding down
Grimlak, sweeping his only daughter into the saddle, and carving a path
through Grimlak's men to the river.  It was the kind of foolhardy stunt that
appealed to his wild heart. By the 'goddess, if it had been nothing more than
personal family honour weighing on the moment, he'd do it! He'd be damned to
Kulak custom and Law for just this once.

To forestall any foolishness on his part, the Khan muttered: "Might as well
get the business started..." and turned on his heel to join the group around
Kulaan.

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The iron laws of the Shivan could be so cruel.

Respectfully, but firmly, Bryllaan and Kalak Gruan turned the Shivan Witch to
face north.  With gentle pressure on her shoulders, they signed for the small
woman to kneel.

Shiv went reluctantly to her knees.  She had put on a clean shift, especially
for this grim business.  The grey robe, decorated with little red embroidered
chevrons, settled about her on the grass.  Her sharp features were set grim.
She was deeply troubled by grave misgivings over what she had come upon the
previous evening, after shooing Marleen on her way.

After dallying a while in talk with the boy by the pool, she had wandered
away among the ruins.  The earlier chance meeting with the Doctor's two
companions, was praying on her mind.  The encounter had stirred a dust of
bitter memories.  She needed some time alone, to gather herself, and seek
peace of mind.  So, in a ferment of recrimination, she had drifted through
the night, trying to justify to the unforgiving spirits of her imagination
her one moment of indecision, in the long ago, that had ruined a world.  Once
again, she stood atop the Tower of Learning on that fateful night, before
Anthro-Dalo had wrecked the dream of life with his mad ambitions; and the
fate of a world turned on the slight pressure of her hand against his back.

In her long memory, she hunted up the vision of the Golden City of the
Anthro-Shivan, as it had appeared to her on that fateful night.  She recalled
with agonising clarity, the serenity of the city, dreaming the beautiful
dream of living, before her moment of inaction had transfigured it into the
long nightmare.

At that exact moment of personal crisis, she had stumbled upon the Doctor at
some nefarious business.  From the dark, Shiv had watched the Oldest and
Fatherless hiding some small canisters in the greenery.  When he was done,
and left, she had gone to see what it was he had hidden.  The smell of Vellas
had assailed her sensitive nostrils, twenty feet from the hiding place of the
nearest canister.  That smell warned her: whatever the Doctor had been at,
she was not going to like it.  Shiv liked nothing at all to do with Vellas.
Truly it was called the Shivan's Bane.

She understood instantly what the Doctor was planning.  Once more in her
tortured imaginings, Shiv stood atop the Tower of Learning, alone with the
responsibility for a decision she had never been qualified to make, while
Anthro-Dalo enumerated grandly the gifts his genius would bestow upon an
adoring Galaxy.  So, she sat for a long time in the dawn light, fingering the
canisters, and weighing up what was best to be done with them.

In the end, by hardening her heart, she made a decision.

The sound of a sword, slithering from its scabbard, brought her back to the
present.  Kalak Gruan was showing the blade to the assembled onlookers,
before driving it into the earth in front of Shiv.  Bryllaan drew two skinning
knives, and displayed them also, before sticking one into the hard ground on
either side of the kneeling woman.  He straightened, and gathered up her
great mane of black hair.  Kalak Gruan stepped forward, his expression
apologetic.  He shook out a grain sack, and with an unspoken apology for such
desecration, drew the sack over Shiv's head.  Bryllaan tied it in at the
throat with a leather cord.  Holding out her hands, Shiv gripped the hilt of
the sword.  Kalak Gruan tied them loosely.  It was convention only - no
leather thongs could hold a Shivan Witch against her will.  It was a formal
requirement of the ritual of the Challenge.  The Shivan were sworn on oaths
more ancient than mankind, not to interfere.  For the shivan, it was a trust
as sacred as their long stewardship of the Sons and Daughters of Terra.
Their acquiescence in this ritual restraining was but a gesture to reassure
the Kulak that the Shivan would not over turn their laws and customs.

In a few minutes, in a very few minutes, the boy would die.  He stood no
chance at all.  He would die on the blade of Grimlak Vylian Khan. When Kulaan
died, so would the heart of Demereen.

For Shiv just then, the Oath left a bitter taste in her mouth, more bitter
than the dust of the grain sack over her head.  But she would not interfere
in this, no matter what her own heart desired.  So she schooled her unquiet
thoughts to serenity, and knelt in the symbol of the Goddess, picked out in
steel.  Behind her, the preparations went on for the travesty of a duel that
would precipitate a senseless slaughter of her foster children.

A sudden change in the quality of the sound, coming from the killing ground,
told her it was about to begin.

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

Kulaan made yet another clumsy lunge.  Grimlak slithered around the boy's
sword with ease.  His long shining blade licked out, turning aside Kulaan's
blade.  The boy was completely open to the killing stroke.  The gathered
multitude held a collective breath.  In a display of contempt, Grimlak pulled
the stroke.  Sneering, he drew back.

The Khan fumed in impotent fury, at this travesty of a duel .  It would last,
he knew, only so long as Grimlak decided it would.  Which meant they would
all live only so long.  It galled him deeply that the length of his life
should be in the power of a man like Grimlak; but he could think of nothing
to do about it at this late stage.

Another lunge by the boy, riveted the attention of all there gathered.  None
saw Demereen make her move.  She rose suddenly, edging close behind Meloven,
and quickly twisting a hand into the woman's braids.  With savage force, she
wrenched the woman's head back, exposing the scrawny throat.  She laid the
blade of the skinning knife against the pale flesh, and screamed:

"Hold!  Grimlak, hold,  I say!  Or I slit your sister's throat!"

The two men stopped abruptly.  Kulaan lowered his sword, his face a mask of
surprise and relief.  Grimlak, without lowering his guard, turned slowly to
regard the two women locked together in a deadly embrace.  A thin smile
curled his lip.

"Stop this now!" Demereen screamed.  I repudiate your claim, Grimlak!  I
repudiate it, do you hear?" She looked around at the gathered Clans.  "All of
you here, bear witness - I repudiate the Bride Quest of Grimlak Vylian Khan."
She turned a flushed face back to Grimlak.  "You'll never touch me, dog.  Do
you hear?  Never!"

A tense hush fell over the multitude.  The silence, with so many present, was
an awesome thing.  Not even the Breath of Holy Mother dared to stir the
trees.

Grimlak stood for a long time, gazing directly into Demereen's wild eyes.
Then, with a slight nod of his head, he said: "So be it;" and turning, ran
his sword through Kulaan.

The force of the blow was such, that an inch of steel protruded from his
back.  As the mortally wounded boy crumpled up, grabbing uselessly at the
blade in his belly, Grimlak gave the sword a savage twist, before ripping it
free.  He watched in satisfaction, as Kulaan fell sideways into the dust,
groaning in pain.  He clutched at the wound, while a red tide of his life
blood pumped between his fingers, pouring away into the earth.

There was one short, shocked moment of horror.  Then a piercing scream tore
itself from Demereen's madly working throat.  Her eyes bulged in horrified
disbelief.  All the colour drained from her face.  She flung Meloven
away.

Grimlak turned, intending to impale her with a gloating sneer, but was only
in time to take a skinning knife in the throat, driven there by the demented
Demereen.  Hot, arterial blood sprayed from the ghastly wound.  Demereen ran
on past the mortally wounded Grimlak, and flung herself to the ground beside
her love.  She gathered the lolling head into her lap, leaning over the pale
face, sobbing wildly.  Her tears splashed down on Kulaan's wracked features.
His eyes were bright with fear.

"SHIVAN!  SHIVAN!" bellowed the Khan.

The little woman was already coming at a dead run, her bare feet pounding a
staccato tattoo on the hard packed dirt.  She went down beside Demereen and
Kulaan in a whirl of black hair and grey skirts.  Leaning over the mortally
wounded boy, she inspected the wound.  Blood was still welling freely from
between his fingers.  A look of concentration crossed the sharp little face.
Everyone there held their breath.  The Shivan sighed, and relaxed.  She
looked up into the pleading black eyes of Demereen, and gave a tiny, negative
twitch of her head.

Demereen screamed, and clutched the head to her breast.  She began sobbing
wildly.Like an echo of that anguish, a mighty roar went up from a thousand
throats.  It was followed, on the instant, by the nerve shivering sound of a
thousand swords drawn in anger.  A small knot of young hot-heads, among the
front rank of Drylanders, surged forward in a ragged group.

The Doctor, caught short by the unexpected turn of events, rather belatedly
 shoved a hand in his pocket, and activated a remote control device.  Two
dozen canisters,  spread in a semi-circle around the area, began to emit a
thick yellow vapour.  No one noticed.

Equally unnoticed in the uproar, the Shivan Witch went to her knees by the
sprawled form of Grimlak.  His blood splashed over her robes, already red and
sopping.  A brief inspection of the ghastly wound in his throat, and she rose
to meet Bryllaan's stunned gaze.  Again, she gave that little negative shake
of the head.  There was nothing she could do for either of them.

Bryllaan drew his sword, but hesitated, uncertain as to where his loyalty now
lay.  A brawny youth, leading the ragged charge, ran at him.  Another came
straight for the Khan.  Demereen's father drew his blade in a single motion.
Deflecting the clumsy thrust,he stepped inside the screaming Drylander's
guard, and hammered a straight left into the youth's face.  The force of the
blow snapped his head back, lifting him from his feet.  The flying form
cannoned into the boy attacking the hesitant Bryllaan, and both went down in
a tangled heap.  The sound of clashing swords rang clear over the uproar as
the knot of Drylanders, and the Khan's personal body-guard, met.

Nylan, as ever at his Lord's side, was barking out orders.  The men had
already moved to surround their Lord with a ring of steel.  Two men broke in
before the circle was closed.  Nylan laid the flat of his sword against the
head of one, Leaving the other free to press home an attack on the Khan.
Nylan was in no position to interfere.  He barked a warning.

The Khan spun, saw his danger, and bellowed right in the man's face.  As he
flinched back, the Khan slammed the man's blade aside.  He lashed out with a
boot, taking the man in the left knee.  The Drylander dropped his sword, and
howled in pain.  He went down, clutching his leg.

In the breathing space afforded by his body-guard closing ranks, the Khan
stepped back to review the developing situation.  He grunted in satisfaction.
So far, it seemed no one had been killed; but that was going to change very
soon.

At that moment, a man screamed in mortal agony.  The death cry sang out over
the uproar like a clarion call to carnage.  The Drylanders surged forwards,
waving swords and yelling the Western Drift War Cries.

After a moment of stunned hesitation, Grimlak's masonry scavengers answered
that roar of rage. Swords flashed into the air. They surged to the attack
en-mass, trapping the Khan's small group between the two furious forces.



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