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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Three

"Come!  Child!" Rasaken commanded, dragging Demereen towards the flap, but
then stopped so suddenly that Demereen bumped against him.  She wrinkled her
nose at the sour smell of his robes.

The Shivan Witch stood in front of the opening, her arms crossed over her
chest.  She was looking up at the Priest with a familiar knowing smile on her
pixie face.  That expression never failed to infuriate the old priest.

"Stand aside," he ordered. "The Lady Demereen and I are taking evening
devotions at Temple." His voice betrayed no trace of his vexation at being
caught out.  Nor did it contain any trace of furtiveness or contrition.  It
was a superb bluff.  Had it been anyone else, he would have carried the day.

Shiv ignored him.  She addressed Demereen.  In an almost perfect imitation of
Rasaken, she said.  "The Goddess is good, Demereen.  She may not grant us
what we most desire, but always what we most need."

It occurred to Demereen at that moment that what she thought she most needed,
and what Father Rasaken might consider she most needed, might be two totally
different things.  Indeed, she knew they were.

Like a hammer blow, realisation struck.  Demereen's mouth dropped open.  She
wrenched her hand free and stepped back from the priest, anger flaring in her
eyes.  "It was you!  It was you wasn't it?"

The old man took a step back, startled by her vehemence.

"It *was* you!  Of course!  I see it now!  What a fool I am!  You've been
trying to get my father to consider the Bride offering of that dog, Grimlak
Vylian, And...And you betrayed Kulaan's quest, didn't you?"

A skinning knife was in her hand, and a hot hatred replaced the anger in her
eyes.  "I see it now! I ought to cut your belly open, and, and  strangle you
with your own gizzard."

"Grimlak Vylian is the son of a noble line of Khans," the old priest said,
ignoring the blade, and her accusation.  "It is said that he derives from the
legendary Kulik Khan himself.  If you can give him a child, the world will be
at your feet.  A marriage alliance would be of surpassing..."

'The man's an animal," Demereen screamed.

"He is a First Rank Lord of the Kulak, chief of a premier Southland
Clan," Rasaken snapped back, his voice rising.

"From an old and proved stock - that I grant you," Demereen conceded angrily;
"but he's an animal."

"But Lady Demereen." Rasaken protested.

That was the last straw.  Whenever he used the appellation "Lady Demereen",
it always got right under her skin.  It was somehow an even more subtle and
pointed insult than his usual "my child".

"Get away from me!  You pig!" she snarled, waving the knife under his beak of
a nose.  "Go!  Now!  Before I ..."

"Demereen!" cried a plump woman who had pushed her way through the tent flap,
clutching a tangled skein of wool in one hand.  "Demereen!  How dare you
threaten a servant of the Holy Mother!  What do you think you're at my girl?"

Demereen's head jerked round.  "Clonny!" she exclaimed in surprise.

Clonhilden, the Acting Kharran Household Matriarch- until the Khan should
re-marry, tutted disapprovingly and plucked the knife from the Girl's hand.
"Really!  Demereen!  What will your father think?  A naked blade on the eve
of No Moons - the Mother's most holy Festival?"

Rasaken's thin-lipped mouth pulled into a cruel smile of triumph at finding
this un-looked for ally in his long crusade to mould Demereen to his idea of
a true Lady of the Kulak.  "Well said, Lady Clonhilden.  It is most certainly
not conduct befitting..." he began in his most pompous tone; but Clonhilden
cut him short, by rounding on him.

"And you, Father!  I think you'd better go, don't you?"

The old priest drew himself up, gathering his ruffled dignity about him like
a tattered robe.  "I was just going.  There is evening devotions to take - "
he shot Demereen a glance of impotent anger.  "For those who truly love the
Goddess, that is, and wish to give true devotion."

"Rasaken!" Clonhilden warned, waving the tangled bundle of yarn under his
hawk nose.

Without another word, the old man turned, stooped through the flap, and was
gone.

Outside, he passed Nylan, without even noticing the man.  The Guard Captain
had been listening to the confrontation from outside the pavilion with
considerable amusement.  He dropped the leg of the horse he had been making a
pretense of tending to, and sauntered after Rasaken.  His face was
thoughtful, as he trailed the brown robed figure at a discrete distance,
through the thronging multitudes.

Inside, Clonhilden took Demereen's hand, leading her to a divan.  "Sit!" the
Matriarch commanded.  Demereen sat down meekly.  She cringed under the
disapproving gaze the older woman levelled at her.

Suddenly, Clonhilden's face softened.  She settled on the divan beside her
young mistress, and slid an arm about the girl's shoulders.  "Demereen," she
began, "you really must not threaten a servant of the Holy Mother like that!
Not at any time.  And especially not on the eve of the Festival.  It gives
grave offence to the Goddess."

Demereen fell against the ample bosom of the older woman, burying her face in
the folds of the loose shirt.  "He betrayed Kulaan's Quest," she wailed.
"The evil old shit betrayed - "

"Demereen!  I WILL NOT have such language from you - especially on the Eve of
the Goddess's most holy Festival."

Demereen straightened.  She peered up at the kindly face, contrite.  "Oh
Clonny, I'm sorry," she apologised.  "But it's just,  just - "

Clonhilden gave her a consoling squeeze.  "I know, Little Lambkin.  I know
how it can be at your age.  I was young once, you know.  Now, what do you say
to a nice mug of mulled wine?  I've just broached a tun of that Flower of the
South that wine vendor unloaded on your father.  I've opened it especially
for the Night of No Moons.  Come now, Lambkin - do up that pretty face of
yours; and we'll have a little private celebration.  Who knows?  That young
scamp you've set your crook at is a resourceful boy.  He's probably working
on a scheme right now - "

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To begin with, Kulaan's luck held, though he had one awful moment when the
stick broke, as he was struggling with the tattered tunic.  He cringed, as
the scarecrow fell with a fluttering rush, among the knee high green of the
vegetables.

The old dog, sleeping in the shade of the sheep pens, stirred.  Its long nose
twitched; but Kulaan had taken trouble to creep up on the kitchen garden of
old Granny Snarken from up-wind, using the cover afforded by the sheep folds.
This approach necessitated a great deal of crawling.  While he was not that
averse to sheep droppings, having been brought up with their smell in his
nostrils, there were limits.  He was beginning to wonder if he should not
have just walked up to Granny Snarken's wagon, naked as he was, and asked for
some clothes.

He cringed with embarrassment, his cheeks reddening at the thought.  He was
not so desperate that he wanted that old busy body to know of his shame and
failure.  It would be all over Temple the moment she arrived for the
Festival.

His precautions had paid off; for the dog did not scent him.  The nose
stopped twitching; and the dog settled back into its doze.  Giving up a
benediction to the Great Mother, Kulaan bent to the task of getting himself
some clothing.

Of course, if the black crow birds raided the patch because of his plundering
of the scarecrow, that would have to be paid for.  Likewise, the hire on the
horse he was intending to steal.  He looked up from his work, to where the
horse stood nibbling the grass at the side of the road.  The bony animal was
saddled and ready, waiting for Granny Snarken to finish her primping and
preening, before she set out for the great festival.  He'd have to hurry.
She was a vain old baggage; but she'd not take forever to get ready.

Kulaan hurriedly stripped the scarecrow, and pulled on the tattered rags.
Gathering up the frayed hem of the tunic, he stuffed it into the ragged sheep
skin leggings, binding it all in with a piece of rope.  Sartorially, it was
an absolute disaster, but it was the best he could do.  The legendary Kulik
Khan would have approved of his resourcefulness, he felt certain.  He would
be back at Temple, before anyone would be expecting him.  This time, the
Quest *would* be successful.

A lance would be necessary to complete the ensemble; but he could break a
willow stem from the clumps along the river for that.  Yes, the legendary
Kulik Khan would have been proud.

Kulaan was stalking the scrawny horse, enjoying the thought, when he stepped
on a flap of material hanging from the left leg.  He crashed down among the
bean plants.  He was up in an instant.  The damage, however, had been well
and truly done.

The old dog was up in a flash.  It came bounding at him, barking furiously.
Evading the mad charge, Kulaan veered around - and came face to face with
Granny Snarken.

"Thief!" the old shepherdess bellowed, and caught him a ferocious whack
across the shoulders with her stout crook.

Kulaan howled, more in surprise than pain.  He veered back the other way,
right into the jaws of the dog.  Granny Snarken and her dog made a great
team, famous for seeing off predators with considerable despatch.

Kulaan lost most of his right legging, and was lucky not to loose a similar
amount of flesh.  Suddenly, he was in the clear.  He bolted for the horse,
the dog snapping at his heels.  The outraged bellowing of Granny Snarken
pursued him, lending wings to his feet.

Now all it needed to complete the disaster, he thought, was for the horse to
bolt!

putting his head down, Kulaan ran for his life.

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The Doctor gritted his teeth.  He was committed now.  The matter was finely
balanced.  He found that he could not call it, one way or the other.; he did,
however, rather fancy he might have over-reached himself this time.

He was never to find out which it was - victory or death!  At the last
instant, a shepherd's crook batted aside Grimlak's blade.

"Blasphemy!" bellowed an outraged voice.  "This is blasphemy!  Naked blades
on the Eve of No Moons!  This is intolerable!  An outrage against the Holy
Mother!"

Rasaken, righteous rage making him oblivious to his deadly peril, stepped
between the two combatants. The men, stunned by the priest's furious
intervention, stepped away.

Rasaken's flashing eyes took in the Doctor's bloodied sleeve.  "Blood spilled
on the Eve of the Mother's most holy day - I WILL not have it!  It is an
insult to the Goddess.  There shall have to be penance done for this."

Noticing the Doctor's outlandish garb, the old priest assessed him correctly
as a foreigner, and dismissed him in a single glance.  "You are an
outlander," he declared.  "Your ignorance of the Holy Mother's Laws excuses
you from the penance."

'Ignorance?  Now -"

Sarah ducked under the rail, and laid a warning hand on the Doctor's arm.  He
never knew when to let well enough alone.  "Doctor," she warned.

"That was a timely intervention," Harry observed.

"I'll say," Sarah agreed.  "He was within an inch of being killed."

"Oh.  I wouldn't say that, Sarah," the Doctor put in breezily.  "I had no
intention of harming the fellow.  And once I'd lured him forward, where I
could disarm him..."

"Disarm him?" Sarah exploded.  She gaped, open mouthed at his affrontery.
"You can't be serious?  He was just about to stick his sword in you!"

"Nonsense!" the Doctor retorted.  He accepted his scarf from Harry, and
glared suspiciously at the soggy end.  He shot the mare a hurt look. The
horse tossed its head and nickered.  It sounded just like a giggle.

"Come now, Doctor," said Harry.  "You're not telling us you weren't in
serious trouble there?  I won't believe it!"

The Doctor favoured them with a hurt look.  "Really, Harry.  I know it looked
dangerous.  But it had to.  The young man is a fine swordsman.  He wouldn't
have been taken in with just any old feint.  It had to look real - if I was
to exploit his weakness."

"He has a weakness?" asked Harry, making no effort to hide his disbelief.
"He looks pretty damned proficient to me."

The Doctor swept up the sword, using it to indicate the young man, who was
walking away in earnest conversation with the priest.  He was pulling on his
shirt, and a jerkin with a tiger head motif on the back panel.

"Note how tall he is," the doctor said.  "He's a cavalry man; and he's right
handed - so he can't help but be suspect low down on the left." The Doctor
flourished the blade, demonstrating his points.  "All I had to do was to make
him commit himself forward and wide on the right and -" He finished his
explanation with a flashing twist of the sword.  "And it is the work of a
moment to disarm him."

Both Harry and Sarah were frankly skeptical, and Sarah made her feeling known
rather bluntly.

"Lady!  Lady, you wrong your Lord - he has the truth of it!" a voice spoke
from behind them.  All three spun, to see a small wiry man in black leather
armour, with a white eagle motif on the breast plate.  He was grinning at
them through a trimmed beard and the ubiquitous walrus.  Even had he not been
in military gear, there could be no mistaking him for anything else.  He
was cloaked in a subtle air of soldierly competence. Grinning wolfishly at
the Doctor, he went on: "by the Mother, sir, you've an elegant hand with the
steel.  I've not seen the like in many a long years service under the Khan.
I swear, you'd have stuck that viper, had not the priest intervened." There
was something in the way he said this last that created an impression that he
would not have been at all unhappy had the Doctor drawn blood.

The Doctor grinned, basking in well deserved praise.  He glanced
side-long at Harry and Sarah.  Sometimes, people just didn't appreciate his
talents.

"I was only going to disarm the chap," the Doctor said expansively.

"Better and better," the little man beamed.  He glanced after the fast
disappearing backs of the young man and the priest, heads bent together in
ernest conversation.

"I must confess, sir, that it would be passing pleasant to while away the
afternoon in some harmless play with the practice swords.  But alas, I am on
the business of my Lord; and I have a less agreeable duty to fulfil." He
inclined his head to Sarah and Harry.  "Lady, Sir,." he said and turning on
his heel, he marched away in the direction taken by the two men.

"Right!" said Harry in a no nonsense tone.  "Let's get that arm seen to."

"Must you?" the Doctor sighed, but submitted to Harry's ministrations without
further complaint.


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