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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Two.

"Are you sure they won't mind?" Sarah asked.

The Doctor broke off from staring reproachfully at his 'little accident" as
Harry had styled it, to glance at the large family group forming up before
the giant prairie wagon.

It was a colorful and happy scene.  There were five adults, all with black
hair, braided with strips of coloured leather.  The women had ornaments
worked into their silken hair.  Silver coins and tiny bells tinkled in the
hair of two women, while gold chains adorned the plats of the matriarch.  The
matronly woman stood proudly in the centre, her arms out-stretched, seeming
to possess enough reach to enfold in her loving embrace, the whole Rabbit
Clan.

"Oh, they won't mind, Sarah," the Doctor answered her, momentarily forgetting
the 'little accident', and having to slap a protective hand over his abused
hat.  "These are not a backward people.  They wouldn't know what a camera
was; but the idea of a camera wouldn't frighten them.  Remember where, or
perhaps I should say WHEN, we are?  These people have a lot of history behind
them."

"They won't think I'm stealing their souls, or something?"

The Doctor did not answer; he was otherwise occupied, fending off the
persistent attentions of his 'little accident".  Harry Sullivan looked on
with a broad grin.

Sarah lifted the Zenith to her eye, centered the family group of the Rabbit
Clan in the view finder, held her breath, and clicked several times.  It
would make a splendid illustration for the notes she would make on this
holiday trip to the Kulak.  They could, of course, never be written up into a
proper publishable article, which tormented the journalist in Sarah's soul.

She smiled a thank you, and waved to the family group before the giant six
wheeled wagon, which had been painted with complicated abstract designs, in
rich primary colours.  It reminded Sarah a bit of a Gypsy wagon, only this
wagon was built on a vastly grander scale.  And those shafts?...

"Doctor?  Whatever kind of animals do they use to pull those things?  There's
enough room in those shafts for an elephant with a weight problem?"

She peered around, trying to identify the draft animal.  She was spoilt for
choice.  Animals roamed freely everywhere among the fat bellied pavilions,
pitched in haphazardly spaced, railed off areas.  Some of the livestock,
Sarah recognised, like the sheep, goats, cattle, dogs and horses, none
though, seemed large enough to fit the shafts.  Others, though they looked a
little familiar, when Sarah looked close, were completely unknown to her.
That was not entirely a surprise, since they were ten thousand light years
from Earth and a hundred and twelve thousand years in her own personal
future.

The cries of the various species of animals were creating a rich backdrop of
sound to the merry scene.  The chatter of the people, delighted cries of the
teeming children and the tinkling of head bells, added to the symphony of
sound surrounding the encampment of wagons.

Sarah wrinkled her nose.  The livestock were also filling the air with smells
too.  And she'd stepped in something again. Wiping the offending material
from her new shoes, she turned to watch the Rabbit Clan forming up into a
loose raft of people, melded into a single entity by joined hands.

The group set off at a shambling pace.  Almost immediately, they rubbed up
against the other groups drifting inwards in fits and starts between the
pitched pavilions.  Hands snaked out to join with other hands, absorbing each
group into the entity, until it seemed an unbroken sea of people washed
southwards among the tents towards Temple, around which the tented city had
settled like a flock of chicks about a broody hen.

As each group was absorbed, the Matriarch of each Clan raised a banner on
high.  Each Vee shaped flag, depending from a cross piece, had in common a
verdant green field, and a small indigo chevron in the top left corner.  On
the center of each triangular field, a different Clan Totem had been stitched
in silver embroidery.  So far, Sarah had identified hundreds of the devices,
including rabbits, trees, sheep birds and many that she did not readily
recognise.

Moving with difficulty among the press of people were hawkers of all manner
of small goods, crying loudly their wares.  From trays, back packs and small
one wheel barrows, they dispensed with broad smiles and friendly words, all
manner of wares, from the ubiquitious skinning knife and leather goods to
gayly coloured and richly embroidered clothing.

A family party of food sellers oozed into the space where the Doctor stood
with Harry and Sarah.  They bustled around the inner shoreline doing a brisk
trade, trailing a mouth-watering cloud of food aromas.  Harry stopped one of
them - a girl of around sixteen or so.  Her long black braids were unadorned.
She gave Harry a very warm smile and such a critically appraising once over,
the navy surgeon coloured and almost forgot to pick up the spicy meat roll he
had just purchased.  As she moved away to her next sale, the girl shot him a
lingering look of vague regret over her right shoulder that positively
smoldered.  Harry pretended not to notice.  The girl's tinkling laughter rose
over the general hubub.  The sound was full of a cheeky amusement and lacked
any malice.

Sarah couldn't help a small smile at Harry's discomfiture.  - poor Harry, she
thought, watching the long black braids tugged by the warm breeze.  She
asked: "Doctor?  Is everyone's hair here black?"

"Yes.  And all eyes are either black or brown."

"I noticed that.  Why?"

"Oh, genetic drift." the Doctor explained absently.  "After the catastrophe -
I say look at this it's ruined." He thrust something soggy in Sarah's face.
The Doctor's 'little accident" had some bad habits, one in particular that
was aggravating him no end.

"Ugghhh!" said Sarah and jumped back - right into the path of a party of five
middle aged women.

They were all dressed in loose scarlet blouses and full ankle length skirts
of the same hue.  A large indigo chevron adorned the front of each skirt.
There was another, smaller one over each breast.  More of the chevrons were
tattooed on their upper arms.

Around the neck of each on a chain was a heart shaped pendant of some light
coloured wood.  A vertical groove was incised in the pendant, almost
splitting it in two.  all had a woollen sack on a long strap over one
shoulder.  A chevron was prominent on each sack.

Unlike everyone else, who wore their hair in braids, the silken tresses of
these women streamed loose in the breeze.  They walked with a steady
purposeful stride and possessed a great aura of power and presence.  The
milling crowds parted magically about these striking women and gave them way.

"Who are they, Doctor?" asked Sarah in a half-whisper, awed by their sheer
presence.  She readied the Zenith.

"Oh - Priestesses of the Goddess." the Doctor answered absently.  He
inspected the soggy, mangled brim of his hat with a lugubrious expression.
He felt the crushed material with an experimental fingertip.  He held it out
again for Sarah's inspection.

"look!  It's ruined!"

Sarah was not sympathetic.

He turnd an accusing look upon the small black mare.  The horse held to an
air of aloof disinterest.  It was nothing to do with her.  The Doctor glared.
The mare tossed its head, smacked its lips at him, and nickered , a sound
that resembled too closly a snigger.

Harry sullivan swallowed down a last mouthful of the spicey meat roll and
grinned.  'You should always be on the look out for signs of bad habits when
buying a horse," he observed with a grin.

The Doctor glared at him, and jammed the hat back on his curls.

"I don't know why you had to bring it along anyway," said Sarah.  "You didn't
have to buy it."

"What," the Doctor was scandalised.  "Really, Sarah!  A deal's a deal on the
Kulak, you know.  A man's word..."

But sarah was not listening.  'What's going on over there?" she interrupted,
and pointed to a thick hedge of people around an open space between the
tents.  The crowd was animated and vociferous.

'I want to have a look," said Sarah.  She strode purpusfully in that
direction, checking her camera.

Harry drifted after her.  he, too, was curious.

The Doctor watched them both a moment, consulted the mare, who rolled brown
eyes at him, nickered and tossed her head.

"Three to one," the Doctor observed.  "It seems I'm out-voted." He tugged on
the lead rope.  "Come on you."

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Demereen slumped dejected on the divan, listening to the merry sounds of
people preparing for the festival which perculated through the woven wool
walls of the Kharran Pavilion.  With a booted foot, she traced around the
abstract patterns of the rug.  The bright colours shimmered, seen through a
veil of tears.

And they hadn't even bothered to untie her hands!

Father was a dear; but sometimes he could take respect for custom and
observance of the law too far.

Demereen sighed and lifted her bound wrists to her mouth.  With her teeth,
she began to worry at the rawhide strip.  Had the Quest been successful,
Kulaan would have used this very thong to tie back her loose hair at their
wedding, when she pledged her name, her house, her flocks and most of all her
heart to Kulaan.

The knot that her love had tied came free.  The returning circulation made
hands and fingers tingle.  Ignoring the discomfort, she lifted the rawhide up
before her eyes.  Dangling from the end was the Clan Token of Kulaan.  The
wedge of green dyed leather bore Kulaan's Clan Totem, a grass mouse.  The
intricately worked motif had been embroidered on the leather token with brown
thread.  Demereen lifted the token to her full lips and kissed it fondly.
She sighed.  Alas, it was not to be this particular thong that would tie
their two separate lives into one.  More tears welled from her dark eyes.
The sparkling droplets ran down her cheeks, leaving streaks in the carefully
prepared make up.

'Oh, Kulaan," she lamented.  "Oh, Kulaan, Kulaan."

Just the sound of his name on her lips lifted her spirits.  She brightened.
It was not all lost, yet.  Kulaan had one more chance, at least, to redeem
himself.  Demereen did not for one second consider that he might give up his
Briding Quest.  It was simply not a thought she could entertain.

She sat up straighter.  It was only a matter of time.  Perhaps tonight...Yes.
tonight, at the Festival of the Holy Mother.  That would be so romantic.  She
would have to be ready.

She considered the thong for a long moment, thoughtful.  Then she reached
into an inner pocket of her skirts and drew out a tiny wooden whistle.
Kulaan had carved it with his own clever hands.  And it worked.  Demereen put
it to her lips and blew an experimental trill, enjoying the thought that it
had been her beloved's lips that had last touched the magical totem.  Her
generous mouth formed into a fond smile.  She fancied she could taste him on
it.  She ran her tongue around the mouthpiece, while a long shiver of sensual
pleasure ran down her spine.  It was delightfully shameful.

Taking it from her lips, she held it up in the uncertain light, which oozed
through the leaf shaped translucent panels in the ceiling.  The barrel of the
whistle was intricately carved with vines and grapes in a well judged and
balanced pattern.  As Demereen rolled the barrel between her strong fingers,
the glaucous light imbued the carvings with life.  The workmanship was
breath-taking.  Kulaan was a fine artisan; he would be a master craftsman one
day.

Demereen pensively stroked her fingers down the shaft.  Taking up the thong,
she threaded an end through the loop on the bottom of the musical instrument.
She passed the thong about her neck, and tied the ends together.  Unlacing
her shirt, she slid Kulaan's love token between her breasts, snuggling it
into the warm secret dark next her heart.

The door flap was drawn aside.  A tall hatchet faced man stooped into the
tent.  He straightened and planted his shepherd's crook into the dirt floor
between the rugs.  He leaned on the staff and stood looking down at her with
a hawkish stare.

With studied indifference to his presence, Demereen laced up her shirt,
before deigning to notice the old man.  Her face froze into a look of
distaste.

She was in no mood to put up with the old priest.  'What do you want?
Rasak?" She demanded, deliberately omitting the female suffix accorded to a
male servant of the Holy Mother.

The priest's knuckles whitened on the staff.  'Father Rasaken," he corrected
in a stern voice.

'Sheep shit!" Demereen spat back in answer to his pedantic correction.

Rasaken asserted loftily: 'That is not language becoming a Lady of the
Kharran House - a daughter of the Khan himself." He shook his head sadly.
"The Goddess knows, but I have done my best.  But I am only a humble priest.
I have tried to instil the proper decorum and manner appropriate to your
station but I see that I have failed miserably.  If only you could have had
the benefit of your mother's advice in the matter of manners?"

'She was a fat old cow!  Who ran my father ragged before she ran off with
that tanner from across the southern ocean!" Demereen bit back, appalled at
the thrust of savage delight the retort evinced.

'Your mother was a true Daughter of the Kulak.  A fine lady who was
cruelly..."

Demereen closed her ears to the sound of the stern voice.  She had listened
to Rasaken's embittered defence of her mother before - many times.  The woman
had been a cousin of the old priest.  He was wont to worry at this old sore
given the slightest provocation.  He had never quite gotten over his cousin's
departure; nor had he entirely forgiven Demereen's father.  Just now,
Demereen was in no mood to listen to his whining about how her father had so
cruelly wronged the woman that she could barely remember.

'Shut up Rasak." she snapped.  "I don't want to hear any of this just now."

Rasaken quelled a surge of anger and said, his voice dripping consolation:
"Of course not my dear.  How crass of me.  I do understand how you must be
feeling after this morning's - ah - little disappointment." He fell silent a
moment, favouring the downhearted girl with a solicitous look.  "Take heart,
child.  It is not the Kulak way to bow down to circumstance.  You are a true
bred daughter of the Kulak, Child, and the Goddess loves you for it.  The
Holy Mother is with us always, ready to extend a helping hand in a time of
need- "

"She wasn't very helpful today;" Demereen observed bitterly.

Treading with care, Rasaken suggested: "Perhaps - it is that You have not
been over diligent in your devotions to the Goddess of late?  Perhaps she has
seen fit to teach a gentle lesson to one of her wayward daughters?"

"Meaning what?"

"Only, child, that the Goddess repays tenfold dutiful devotion in love and
luck."

"You think that if I pray to her?  that she will grant my wish?" Somehow that
did not sit well with Demereen, the thought of a venal Holy Mother.  But just
now she was not thinking straight, and was more than willing to believe
anything that brought her wedding closer.

Rasaken clasped his hands together over the token of the Goddess hanging at
his breast, and looked pious.  "Surely, child, it can do no harm to try."

Demereen looked up, her large eyes aglow with sudden hope.  "You think that
if I go to evening devotions and prayed?  That it would help?"

"It can do no harm," Rasaken offered carefully.  "Mind, your prayers must
come from the heart, my child.  Come!  we shall stroll together to Temple, an
discover the will of Holy Mother.  The Goddess is good, she may not grant us
what we most desire, but always what we most need."

Demereen took the proffered hand and rose.  Her head was filled with a
delicious romance of Kulaan binding her wrists, sweeping her into the saddle,
and galloping away into the boundless prairie of the true Kulak, that wild
and wonderful country beyond the Steadings of the Southern Shore - the only
home a true Kulak yearned after.

Demereen submerged herself in romantic imaginings.  In her mind, the hooves
thundered; she could feel the Breath of the Mother, scented with the summer
blooming flowers, streaming her hair.  Kulaan's arms were about her.  She
snuggled into the secure warmth of his body, and kissed his willing mouth.
Her heart fluttered madly at the light of love which kindled in his laughing
eyes.  A dreamy smile touched her lips.

The shock of Rasaken's bony claw closing about her hand, drove the delightful
dream from her head.  The vision thinned, slipped through her mental fingers,
receding away into an uncertain future.  Demereen sighed, and glanced up into
the predatory face of the family priest.  The expression she saw there made
her shudder with foreboding.

The Priest tightened his grip.  "Come!" he commanded.  Though Rasaken could
not sense the Shivan Witch nearby, he was anxious to be gone before that
meddling little monster put in an appearance.  Surely, the Goddess smiled on
his plans or else why should she have cleared his path of the misguided
little busy-body, who could spoil all with a single glance?  This gift of the
Goddess should not be wasted.

Grimlak would be waiting nearby to the Practice Grounds.  Though the young
Noble had become quite obsessed with the problem that denied him fulfillment,
he could still be distracted by the prospect of violence; but like Rasaken
and his cousin's disgrace, Grimlak would be compelled to return again and
again to the thing that blighted his life.  Despite the draw of the Open
Swords, he WOULD be ready to pounce.

He would take Demereen to wife, according to Kulak Law and Custom.  Not, the
priest suspected, that it would do him the least bit of good.

"Come!" he repeated, and turned to the flap, almost dragging Demereen from
her feet in his haste.

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From beyond the hedge of excited people came enigmatic sounds of exertion and
the clack and snap of wood being hit together.  Sarah stretched up, but could
not make out what was happening.  The crisp contacts sounded sharp in the air
over the animated conversation.  Helpful advice was being shouted,
expressions of disgust and general ribald comments were being made in a good
natured manner.

Sarah began to hop up and down.  "What's happening, Doctor?"

The Doctor's greater height gave him an advantage.  "It's a fencing contest.
There'll be an Open Swords competition.  These are just the practice and
preliminary rounds." He slapped a hand over his hat as the mare took
advantage of his turned back to reach for it.

"I want to get a look," said Sarah and wormed her way into the press.  There
were a few angry noises from some men; but the moment they turned and saw
that it was a woman they squeezed aside obligingly for her.  In a moment she
found herself in the front pressed up against a wooden rail surrounded by
women and children.

In a knee high mist of grey dust, kicked up by scuffing feet, two pairs of
men were fencing with wooden swords.  As Sarah readied her camera, one man
lunged and touched the practice weapon to his opponent's throat.  A cry of
"Hit!  A hit!" went round the crowd.  There followed a brief stir of
activity, among the male spectators while bets were settled.  The two
combatants bowed and retired from the arena.  The attention of the crowd
focused on the remaining pair.

One was tall, and clean shaven.  He was stripped to the waist.  His skin was
grey with dust.  His opponent, a shorter man, was defending gamely.  Sarah
understood little about the art of sword fighting; but it was painfully
evident that it was not a proper contest.  The taller man was in a different
class from his opponent.

The swords flickered and clacked.  The dust swirled about the battling men.
Their braids had been tied back out of the way into single pony tails, which
danced and swished.  With every attack and defence, the shorter man gave
ground.  A dozen times, the other could have made a 'kill'; but always he
pulled back at the last moment.

"Why doesn't he finish it?" asked Harry from the back of the crowd.  "It's
plain as a pikestaff - the fellow's beaten!"

The Doctor was studying the tall man with narrowed eyes.  "Yes.  I think
you're right, Harry," he agreed.  "He can finish it at any time.  I think
he's intent on humiliation - rather than winning."

An uneasy silence had descended on the audience.  Men were scowling, some
spat in disgust.  They did not like what was going on, any more than the
doctor.  For some reason, they were unwilling to make their displeasure
known, as they had with gusto over the other contest.

Suddenly, the Doctor shouldered his way to the front and vaulted over the
rail.  He intercepted the sword of the tall man.  "Enough!" he commanded.
"The man's beaten."

An incredulous gasp ran around the circle of spectators.  The young swordsman
wrenched his weapon free.  He snarled an oath, and aimed a savage blow at the
Doctor's face.  Again, a hand intercepted the blade.

An amused smile settled on the swordsman's face.  He fixed the Doctor with a
speculative look.  "A little unorthodox, sir," he observed, amused.  "But the
challenge is accepted.  We shall, of course, use bladed weapons.  I have the
right of choice." His smile took on a predatory edge.  "Yes.  I tire of this
play.  We shall do this properly."

He beckoned to a young man standing at the rail. "Bryllaan?  My sword, if you
please?  It appears we have one here with a little more balls than the rest
of these cowardly curs."

The bondsman looked uncomfortable.  He shot a look at the red robed
priestesses as they moved sedately past the practice ground.  His lips drew
into a rebellious line.

"Bryllaan!" the man snapped, a dangerous edge in his voice.

With evident reluctance, Bryllaan took up a scabbarded sword, and presented it
to his Bond Master.

The man drew the gleaming weapon out by the hilt.  He flourished it, making
little cuts and stabs in the air.  The aafternoon sun glinted and glittered
off the three feet of razor edged silver steel.  He paused in his exhibition
and smirked at the Doctor.

"Grimlak Vylan Khan," he introduced himself in an amused tone.  "Well?  Sir?
Shall we get this business started?"

"I'm not going to fight you," said the Doctor.

Grimlak's eyebrows rose in feigned surprise.  "What?  You'll surrender your
woman without defending your rights?" His mocking gaze travelled over Sarah,
undressing her.  "Hmmm?  A pretty baggage.  You know, it might even be worth
the effort of carving you up."

The Doctor drew himself up, a stern look on his face.  "If you put it like
that, then you leave me no alternative." He spun about and appealed to the
gathered crowd.  "May I have the lending of a blade?"

"Doctor!  You can't!" Harry cried in alarm.  "Look at the fellow!  He'll
carve you up!"

The Doctor grinned toothily at him.  'Come now, Harry.  Would you have me
back down from defending the honour of a lady?" He glanced significantly at
Sarah.

Sarah was appalled.  'Doctor!  This is no joking matter.  He means to kill
you.  Look at him!"

Grimlak was going through an intricate set of practice strokes.  The blade
flickered and glittered in the sun light.  It sang a whistling song of death
as it clove the air.

"I know, Sarah.  And I'm not joking.  If I don't fight him, he'll have
certain rights over you."

Sarah's mouth gaped open.  "What!"

"Unless," the Doctor went on.  'Unless you're BARREN.  You ARE BARREN, aren't
you?"

Sarah was so shocked, she did not even hear the emphasis on the word
'barren', let alone caught the Doctor's meaning.  She just stood there, mouth
agape.

The young man paused in his exercise and peered closely at the woman.
grounding the point of his sword, Grimlak leaned on it.  "Well, now?" he
surmised.  "So the trollop's not worth the sweat.  Never mind," and he swept
up the sword again.  "I'll just have to content myself with carving you up.
Now, sir, arm yourself or I'll stick you where you stand."

"Harry?  Would you second me?" asked the Doctor.

"Err.  Yes - eh - I've never officiated at a duel before.  What do I have to
do?"

"The Doctor grinned at him.  "Oh.  Just stand around and look as if you know
what you're doing.  Ah.  And I think it's your job to fetch me a sword."

The Doctor's light hearted manner did nothing to reassure Sarah.  She had
seen him before breeze right into the heart of a perilous situation, full of
a breezy self-confidence, only for him to later admit that he was completely
without a plan of action, and playing it by ear.  Some terrible catastrophies
had swung in the balance of the Doctor's ad hoc solutions.

She bit her lip, worriing about what it would mean if the Doctor lost, or was
killed.

A sword was offered, flourished and discarded.  Another was found.  After a
few practice strokes, the Doctor professed himself satisfied with the balance
and doffed his heavy coat.  He passed it to Harry, along with his scarf and
hat.  "There," he said in a light tone.  "This looks like work for a second."

All this, Grimlak watched with a slight smirk darkening his handsome
features.  A few men in the crowd made comments in loud voices.  One glance
from Grimlak caused them to find something very, very interesting at their
feet.  A few of those who had complained, brightened a little at sight of the
Doctor limbering up.  A couple even looked hopeful; they shot Grimlak a
speculative look, as though measuring him for a grave shroud.

Sarah's hopes, too, rose a little as it became plain that the Doctor knew how
to use a sword, might even be quite good at it.  He probably was, she thought
sourly; he was usually aggravatingly proficient at everything he did.

The two men squared off, and touched sword tips in the time honoured salute.
Instantly, Grimlak launched a murderous attack.  Like a striking viper, his
blade lanced towards the Doctor's throat.  Steel sliced flesh.  Blood
spattered in the dusty air.  As one, the spectators gasped in shocked
surprise.  The attack was daring and ruthless.  It was meant to end the
matter right there, and almost did.

Instead, the blade ripped through the lobe of the Doctor's left ear, as he
twisted aside.  Only his superior reflexes had saved him.  The man was far
quicker than he had surmised - possibly Grimlak was the best blade on the
Kulak, present combatants included.

Grimlak darted forward.  The Doctor skipped back.  He deflected a cut to his
neck, then ducked under the return stroke at his head.  A few wisps of curly
hair drifted away on the breeze.  He blocked a thrust to his groin, his
expression grim.  His intervention in the fencing contest was beginning to
look a trifle rash.  The vague idea he had entertained of disarming Grimlak
was starting to look like a remote possibility.  It looked far more likely
that he would be slain.

For himself, being killed would be somewhat of an inconvenience.  It was
something to be avoided if possible, as it would use up another regeneration,
not to mention personally very unpleasant.  For his two companions, though,
his death would be a far more serious matter.

Harry was too much the gentleman; he would feel obligated to step in to
defend Sarah.  The outcome of that did not admit of mending.  Harry had only
one life.  And Sarah, the Doctor knew, would not submit passively to
Grimlak's rights.  She would resist him; and he was a man who would meet
resistance with brutality, finding a certain enhancement of his enjoyment in
her futile struggling.

The people crowding the rail drew in a sharp breath.  Some of the women
turned away.  Sarah squeaked in alarm, and hid her face in her hands.

The Doctor's attention was brought back to his peril by a stinging pain in
his left arm.  He glanced down to see the linen turn red.  This was getting
serious.  It was no time to be come distracted by contemplation of "what
ifs?" - that was a sure way to ensure that his worst fears would come to
pass.

It was time to take the fight to the enemy.  Judging his moment, the Doctor
turned aside another slash at his head and llaunched a dazzling riposte.
Instantly, he found himself in dire peril.  His foot caught on a rough patch.
Thrown off balance, he stumbled, leaving himself wide open to Grinlak's
mercy.

The man had no understanding of the concept.  Seizing his advantage, he
attacked like lightning.  Batting aside the Doctor's desperately contrived
defence, he executed the killing stroke with consumate skill.

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