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.



WARNING:

This section contains a description of a woman giving birth.  The scene is
explicit, though not overly detailed.  It might be considered unsuitable for
family reading.

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

Six

"We'll never catch up to them now," Harry complained, shouting over the noise
of the festival crowd.

They were hemmed in by a jostling, laughing multitude, which kept breaking
into spontaneous circling dances.  Linking arms, the crowding people swayed
to a ragged rhythm, singing all the while.  Hundreds of the fat bellied
lanterns, winking and gleaming among the branches of the blossom bedecked
boughs of the Sacred Grove, cast a cosy golden lambency over the festivities.
All about, drums, flutes and many an exotic stringed instrument, strove in
vain to raise music above the noise.

Adrift in the crowds, the Doctor was using his height to good effect, by
peering over the heads of those near him.  "Over there", he cried, mouthing
the words with exaggerated emphasis, right in Harry's ear. He pointed to the
trees of the Sacred Grove.

Harry nodded, and tried to move in that direction.  He got only a few yards
before he was gathered into one of the circling dances, which broke out
suddenly around him.  Linking arms, the revelers stamped and whirled in a mad
frenzy, sucking a bemused Harry into the heart of the people.  Skirts flared.
Black hair, woven in plats, fluttered, the adornments of bells and coins
jingling merrily.  The mass of people swayed in the irresistible rhythm of
the dance.  Then, someone missed a footing, and clutched at the person next
to them for support.  Slowly, the dance lost cohesion, and disintegrated into
a mad confusion of staggering, laughing people.

In the midst of the melee, Harry was grabbed by a young woman.  First, she
hugged him fiercely, before kissing him, despite his protestations.  At last,
the raven tressed beauty released him. She touched fingers to his lips. Then,
spinning away, she swept up a small child, and whirled the infant on high.
From under the trees at the edge of the Sacred Grove, the Doctor watched all
this with a wistful expression.

A few seconds later, looking distinctly sheepish, Harry gained the edge of
the crowd, joining the Doctor.

Far back among the trees, many knots of people were gathered in groups.
Their forms floated, indistinct in the cosy gloom, picked out by winking
stars, as the lambent light flashed and sparked from silver ornaments, set in
hair black as midnight.  An expectant stillness moved with purpose in the
cherry scented air over those shadowed groups.

Across from the Sacred Grove, Temple reared dark against a wide summer sky.
Framed protectively by the pale halo of hub stars, the Temple Precincts were
another haven of stillness.  No lamps gleamed there; nor would any be lit
until the midnight bells sounded, calling the Kulak to prayer.

As the Milk of the Goddess so enfolded the Temple, so was Temple Plaza girt
about by Temple and Grove.  In the sanctuary between these enfolding arms of
shadowed serenity, the Kulak made wild festival.

The Doctor laid a hand on Harry's shoulder.  "Over that way," he said,
pointing off towards the river.  "If we skirt around the edge of the Sacred
Grove, we can catch up to the Khan's party, and get a grand view of the
procession from the reviewing stage along the river bank.

Harry nodded, turned to follow the Doctor, but at that moment a woman's voice
rose in a groan of pain.  The anguished cry sliced through the
pandemonium like a   knife. It came from somewhere in the shadowy depths of
the Sacred Grove.

"What was that?" Harry demanded, peering into the cherry scented shadows.

The Doctor glanced at the shadowed heart of the grove. "Oh, nothing to
interest us - just part of the festivities," he said in such an off-hand
manner that Harry was instantly suspicious.

He was not having any of that.  "But I heard a woman scream," he insisted.

The Doctor pulled off his hat.  His wide open face was a mask of guileless
innocence.  "I dare say you did," he said with unusual care.  "Now come on or
we'll miss the start of the procession."

But it was useless.  Harry was already moving into the gloom under the
trees towards the nearest group of people.  The Doctor's eyebrows rose in a
gesture of resignation.  A broad mischievous grin showed white teeth.  He
knew he should not, but he was going to enjoy this.  Jamming the hat back on
his head, and shoving hands deep into the pockets of his great coat, the
Doctor ambled after the navy surgeon.

From the midst of the nearest group, the sound of a woman groaning in
discomfort lifted into the gentle scented dark.  A ripple of encouragement
ran around the group.  Harry moved right in close behind the backs and
stretched up to see over the gathered people.

And dropped back upon the instant, to turn a scandalised look at the Doctor.

The Doctor smiled at him in that open, innocent way that Sarah in particular,
found rather irritating.

"Doctor!  Doctor...There's a...A woman over there and she's ..."

The ruddiness of his cheeks might have been from the light cast by the fat
bellied lanterns strung from the branches, but it was not.

The Doctor took a moment to glance over a shoulder into the cleared area in
the middle of the group.  A naked woman stood, legs splayed, supported gently
from behind by the strong arms of a young man.  Her skin glistened with a
silver sheen of sweat. Her abdomen was heavily swollen with the promise of
new life.  Several Birth Attendants, in indigo drapes, stood about the
compelling tableaux.  One was at the mother-to-be's left, encouraging the
panting straining woman, who was manifestly in the final stages of labour.
The mother-to-be was gripping the blue cloaked Midwife's hand fiercely.
Another young woman, hardly more than a girl, was crouched before the spread
legged woman, waiting.

To one side stood a Priestess Doctor of the Goddess.  She was watching
 the proceedings with a knowing eye.

"She's about to give birth!" Harry gasped out, shocked by the public
spectacle.

"That's right," the Doctor concurred.

"But, but.."

The Doctor grinned at him.  "Whatever's the matter, Harry?  You *are* a
medical man - aren't you?  I'm sure you've seen dozens of babies born? Should
be all in a day's work?"

Harry swallowed.  "Well.  Eh - yes."

"Well then?"

"Ah.  Well, actually, peri-natal medicine's not my field, actually," Harry
blustered.

The Doctor laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Well!  That's alright
then.  They seem to have things nicely in hand.  These Priestesses of the
Goddess are the finest practitioners of gynecology anywhere within ten
thousand light years.  Magnificent midwives!"

"But Doctor!" In public?  It's not decent!"

The Doctor patted his arm reassuringly.  "Different customs.  Different
practices, Harry, old chap.  You know how important babies have been to this
people for so many centuries? A birth is a very important event among them -
 all births.  And,  it's especially lucky to give birth this evening, in
particular  - on the night of the Festival of No Moons."

Harry was shaking his head in scandalised disbelief.  It wasn't that he
lacked empathy; as a doctor he had his fair share of that talent.  More it
was that he had been born into the last dying influences of the prurient
Victorian ethos which felt happier with the trappings of death and the grave
than with the birth of new life; and doctoring was a very conservative
career.  Harry's submersion for most of his adult life in its practices and
attitudes had also contributed towards the forming of his mind-set.

"But in public?  All these people.  I suppose they're all her family?" he
said.

The Doctor glanced around.  "Oh I would think so.  They're a very close
people, community is very important to them.  Giving birth in public is the
most sacred and solemn statement of belonging that anyone can make on the
Kulak."

"I'm glad Sarah's not here to see this." said Harry, glancing through a gap
in the crowd to where the woman panted and heaved to bring forth the new
life that had grown within the warm security of her body.

"Don't misjudge Sarah, Harry.  She's..."

Just then the woman groaned again, and heaved mightily.  Another ripple of
encouragement ran around the gathered crowd.  A woman's voice rose in a
ululating cry that raised hackles along Harry's neck.  The thrilling sound
wound up among the blossom grown branches of the cherry grove.

It happened then.

Streaked with blood, glistening wetly in the soft comfortable gloom of the
lanterns, a bundle of flesh slid from between the woman's thighs.  Deftly,
the waiting girl caught the slippery bundle of new life, lowering it
gently onto the red cloth patterned with indigo chevrons.

The woman let out a long sigh, which bustled around the watchers like a wind
laughing in the leaves of the waiting trees.

A quiet cheer ascended into the warm darkness from the people. A Stone Kerd
jar appeared, as if by magic, and began to go around the group, passing from
hand to hand.  Many arms reached up to the blossom overhead to pluck sprigs
of the delicate flowers.  Other hands took them, began working them into
black hair, already stiff with coloured leather strips, tassels and coins of
silver and gold threaded on silver wire.

In the middle of the circle, the new mother sank to her knees on the bright
birthing mat.  A sharp slap was followed by a lusty bawling.  The midwife
holding the newborn, presented the squirming bundle to the mother.  The woman
took it and cradled it, knowing that what she held was the most precious
thing that her arms could ever contain.  With tired eyes, full of
wonder, she smiled down at the prize won through her great endeavour of
maternal love.

The Priestess drew a plain work a day skinning knife.  All eyes were suddenly
upon the tall woman.  She held the blade up so that it caught the leaping
light of the lanterns.  The broad length of grey steel gleamed dully. A taunt
expectation ran around the on-lookers. A collective breath was held.  The
mood was so infectious that even Harry held his breath and strained forward.
He was strongly aware of a great sense of expectation astir in the air.

With the blade on high, the Priestess searched the crowd.  Every one tried
with varying amounts of discretion to catch the woman's eye.  At last the
Priestess signed in some subtle way.  One small girl in the front of the
crowd ran forward, unable to hold in a little cry of excitement.  The rest of
the people sighed with a benevolent regret.

The girl could have been no more than fifteen.  She was dressed up in her
very best festival dress.  Her eyes were wide, and round with excitement.
They shone in her scrubbed face, framed by the silver be-decked halo of her
hair.

With an effort, the girl composed herself enough to gravely accept the
knife from the Priestess.  An attendant held up a bowl, brimming with a dark
liquid.  An astringent vapour curled up from the shimmering
surface. The girl thrust the blade into the antiseptic brew, before showing
it to the crowd,

On the spread cloth, a leather thong was tied about the dark pulsing cord
joining mother and child.  The Priestess held it up in her hands.  It
glistened wetly in the gentle illumination of the lanterns.  The little
girl stepped up, looked to the Priestess for confirmation;  the woman nodded.
The knife slashed; and the new life was now on its own in the big wide world.
Except, of course, for the powerful love of its mother, and the fond and
boundless love of their people - a warm and protective cloak cast about them
without condition.

A great sigh rustled through the gathering. The Kerd jar began to make its
way from hand to hand once more. In their midst, a red cloak was cast over
the mother and child. A large indigo chevron glowed upon the back, and a
smaller one over each breast.  The Priestess knelt to the mother and child,
with the attendants crowding in around them. The pair were hidden from view,
as the midwives set about the necessary matters to complete the birth.

Then something changed.

There was no outward sign, but something had changed.  A tension, a concern
had entered the air of the birthing grove.  Even Harry sensed it.   The
navy surgeon stopped grinning madly at the doctor and cast about for
the source of that subtle alteration. A long pause settled in taunt silence
under the trees.

Into that silence, the sound of a woman groaning in distress rose.
The group shifted uneasily, then, as a single entity, began drifting away  to
where another event was taking place.

A name was whispered on many lips:  Zamaleen, the Lady Zamaleen.

"Come on,Doctor," Harry urged the Doctor and set off in the same direction.
"Something's going wrong over there.  I might be needed."

At the focus of this movement was another woman, very young looking.  She was
in the advanced stages of labour. She was leaning against a tree,
moaning in discomfort.   Her head was resting against the trunk. Her heavily
gravid body was sheened in sweat.  Black hair was plastered wetly to her
naked shoulders and back.  She was moving in an erratic, spasmodic way.

The women attending the girl were grave of expression.  they were
alternating between reassuring the woman, and talking among themselves.  The
Priestess of the Goddess was on her knees making a practiced examination.
At length,  she stood and held a hurried conference with the two elderly,
women attending.  She looked very worried.

Harry began to shoulder his way forward.  His knowledge was going to be
needed.  A powerful need had come upon him while watching the birth to be
useful to these people.  The empathic welcome they had eloquently expressed
had fallen over Harry like a cloak of comforting belonging.

The Doctor, who had been on guard for such a reaction, moved to intercept
him.  He materialised at Harry's side, his floppy felt hat clasped in a hand.
"It'll be alright, Harry.  Some of the best peri natal healers anywhere."

another wail of distress rose into the night. More people began to drift over
from other birthing parties amid the trees.

"The girl needs help.  I must help!" he cried, and made another attempt at
pushing his way through the press of people.  The Doctor laid a hand on
his arm.

"They'll handle it, Harry," he assured the agitated man.    There's no
need to worry."

"But I'm a doctor.  I can help.  I won't  just stand by..."

"Look!" the Doctor pointed beyond the developing drama. "They've
summoned more help."

The men and women opposite had parted like the Red Sea before Moses. Two more
be-shawled Priestesses were gliding into the cleared space around the spread
birthing blanket.  The on-lookers relaxed a little.  There was a powerful but
unspoken sense of "Ah!  Now things will be right!"

But they were not.  The two newcomers held a brief discussion with the
attendant Priestess.  One of them bent to do a quick examination, rose, and
snapped out a command.  The birth attendants moved, taking the suffering girl
and easing her down onto the ground.  With an almost telepathic
understanding, a few of the crowd moved in and settled around the woman to
give comfort.  One took a hold of a hand, squeezing reassuringly.  Another
knelt to cradle the lolling head in gentle hands and sooth the sweating brow.

Fear clotted in the dark under the trees.  The scent of the cherry blossom
became cloying, stealing breath from throats suddenly tight with anxiety. The
cosy gloom grew chilly with an indefinable threat.

"I can't just stand here doing nothing," Harry cried.  His hands were
clenching and un-clenching.  "I am going to help."

But before Harry could do anything, another hasty conference by the
Priestess doctors was concluded by one of them taking up a small object
hanging on a silver chain between her breasts.  She put it to her lips.

"It's alright, Harry," the Doctor reassured the agitated Navy Surgeon.
"They are going to summon help.  The very best help that poor girl can get
anywhere."

The Priestess blew into the whistle. Three times, her cheeks swelled.  Harry
heard nothing; but each time the Priestess blew, the Doctor winced and
squeezed his eyes shut.

"What's she doing?" Harry asked.

"Help is coming."

Harry started to speak, but was silenced by a ferocious whirlwind of grey
robes and streaming black hair which came out of the dark at a dead run.  A
Shivan Witch exploded among them, all but bouncing Harry from his feet. In a
whirl of skirts, she settled among the group clustered around the woman in
labour. Two more Shivan came racing from the opposite direction, their bare
feet pounding a tattoo of urgency on the hard packed ground.

One vanished in the huddle at the base of the cherry tree.  The other
addressed herself to a Priestess. Another brief discussion ensued, then all
got down among the crouching women.

Harry fretted.  He kept shooting helpless appeals at the Doctor; but the Time
Lord just smiled calmly back.  He was careful, though, to keep a firm grip on
the Surgeon.  "It'll be ok, Don't worry, Harry.  The Shivan Witches have away
with childbirth.  They have a very special interest in seeing that nothing
more will go wrong," he assured; but the Doctor's optimism did nothing to
calm Harry's agitation.

The gathered people seemed to have relaxed.  A few were even beginning to
drift back to their own birthing parties.  The moaning of the unfortunate
woman hidden in the huddle of attendants died away.  For several long minutes
nothing seemed to be happening.  Then a ripple of elation ran like
quicksilver through the crowd. From somewhere, lost among the depths of the
hunched women, several female voices rose in a joyful ululation.

From the midst of the huddle a baby began to cry in a furious complaint.  A
Shivan Witch rose, cradling a new born baby in her arms.  A deep, heartfelt,
sigh went up relieving the tension which had coagulated in the scented air of
the Sacred Grove.

A few minutes later, as the Doctor and Harry picked their way out of the
Sacred Grove, Harry almost stumbled over two people, hidden in the shadows.
The pair were clasped in each other's arms, oblivious to the world.  In
answer to Harry's scandalised look, the Doctor quipped.  "The complete
process, so to speak - from conception of the idea - to the finished
product."

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

It was some quality of the small sound, an overtone of furtiveness, that
froze Kulaan against the inside wall of the tent.  His heart began to pound.
He was not alone.

Holding his breath, Kulaan strained to separate the slight sound from the
familiar noises of a Kulak camp. Somewhere outside, a sheep began a strangled
bleating. The nicker of a horse and the muted sounds of restless movement,he
identified as the horse picket. More distant, came a lilting music, drifting
on Holy Mothers breath sighing over the camp.  Closer to, he could hear
women's voices gossiping and the beginnings of a chanting as they prepared to
get their own private celebration of the mother under way. It was none of
these noises that had given him pause.  For all his life, these homely sounds
had provided a backdrop to his existence.  Under normal circumstances, they
would barely intrude upon his consciousness.

There was another sound, just as familiar, but coming from inside the tent.
A muffled snoring was issuing from the bed area beyond the embroidered woolen
wall.

Demereen?  His heart missed a beat as a surge of unwarranted hope swept
him up.

From his concealment in a patch of shadow, he peered about the tent.  A
single lamp hung from a loop of leather on the central support.  The dim
yellow lambency created grotesque shadow monsters from mundane furnishings;
but their menace was only momentary.  A second, harder look dispelled their
threat.  He was just beginning to relax when the furtive sound came again.
He held his breath.

A sharp movement caught his eye.  Atop a divan, someone had left a platter
with a half eaten meal.  Standing next to the plate was a jug.  The flicker
of movement came again.  A tiny brown grass mouse suddenly materialised
beside the jug.  Kulaan  giggled with the sudden release of tension.  With
a deliberate effort, he relaxed his too tight grip on the skinning knife.

In the uncertain shadow of the jug, the tiny animal sat up on its haunches.
It stared, unblinking at Kulaan.  The prehensile nub of nose was twitching
athletically, making the silken whiskers flicker. The large, rounded ears
were extended, focusing on Kulaan.  The eyes, tiny points of black in the
face, glinted with cautious speculation.

At length, the mouse decided kulaan was no threat.  It dropped to all fours
and scurried onto the platter.  Sitting back on its haunches, it grabbed up a
crumb of the coarse bread with its hands.  The sleek little creature turned
its back on Kulaan and began stuffing the tasty prize into its mouth,
completely ignoring his presence.

Kulaan was swept up in a sudden wave of elation by the sight of his Clan
Totem blithely making free with the Khan's goods.  It was a sign from the
Goddess - it had to be. She was showing him that she had blessed his Bride
Quest, and was smoothing the way for him.  The mouse was female. Kulaan knew
this as an absolute fact, though in the poor light there was no way of
telling.  But he was sure of his own certainty.

Outside, the chanting began in earnest.  Kulaan recognised the strong clear
voice of Clonhilden leading the hymn to the Goddess.  The mouse
rotated one ear to listen, but went on with its meal.

"Thank you Holy Mother," he breathed his sincere.  thanks to his Goddess in
the guise of a mouse.  Moving towards the curtain, he slipped into the
darkness beyond.  Guided by the sound of snoring, he felt his way to the side
of a divan.  In the close confines of the divided off area, the air was rich
with the delicate fragrance of Demereen's favourite perfume.  Kulaan drew in
a deep appreciative lung-full.  The taste of it in his mouth set his heart to
thumping madly.  Even though paradise beckoned in that scent, making his
senses swim, half his mind had also registered the smell of Kerd - and
thought it odd.

"Demmy?  Demmy?" he called softly.

The shadow wrapped sleeper on the divan stirred, grumbled something
unintelligible, before resuming the rather coarse snoring.

"Demmy?  It's me.  I've come to carry you off," Kulaan whispered urgently.

The only response was a bad tempered mumble.  Kulaan smiled fondly.  Bending
close, he made to kiss his Demereen awake; but recoiled at the powerful stink
of Kerd on his love's breath.  A slight frown of puzzlement touched his brow.
He had never known Demereen to touch such coarse and vile spirits before.

He was bending down to look closer, when a furtive noise  from
beyond the woolen wall made him stiffen.
There was no time to worry about the Kerd on Demereen's breath, he had to be
 away and quickly.  He must not be caught again - there'd not be time for
another try if they were to be joined on this most holy of nights.

He drew out the length of rawhide thong, gathered up her hands and bound them
with gentleness.  Again, half his mind noted there was something wrong with
her hands.  They felt soft - as though unused to hard work.  Again he pushed
his misgiving aside.  It could be sorted out later, once they were across the
east river in the travelling camp of his Clan.  If Granny Snarken's old nag
held up well, that would be well before midnight.  then they could start back
with his father's retinue shortly thereafter.  They could still make it
before dawn.  His Bride Quest could still be blessed on the Night of No Moons
and be that much more special and lucky.

He reached down to rouse his beloved, hesitated a long moment, then with a
big grin he bent and gathered her up.  How much more right it would be like
this - carrying off his prize in the old style.  He hefted the limp form onto
his right shoulder.  He had done it!  By the Mother he had done it!

Walking on air, he brushed aside the curtain and stepped into the main area
of the tent  - where disaster ambushed him with a drawn skinning knife.

A resolute Clonhilden stood in the middle of the main area in her best
clothes.  She held the knife with an unsettling familiarity; the blade of the
knife was glimmering in the dodging glow of the lamp.  Her face was set and
grim.

"Clonhilden - Please!  You haven't seen me." Kulaan pleaded with the stout
woman. "Dear mother Clonny - please?  It's my last chance for a pledging on
the Night of No Moons!"

Kulaan took heart from the slight smile which softened the stern face.  A
hint of amusement glinted in the black eyes.  She lowered the knife.  Kulaan
relaxed, grinning;  but Clonhilden's next words wiped the smile away quicker
than it had come.

"Put her back, Kulaan!"

"Please?  Clonny?  It's my last chance?" Kulaan pleaded in desperation.

"But Kulaan -" the Matriarch began; but Kulaan pushed past her, heading for
the entrance.

"Kulaan - WAIT!  You don't understand."

The young man was not listening.  He was already through the flap and running
for Granny Snarken's nag, tied to the rail of the Kharran Pitching.

Clonhilden watched him go.  Sighing, she shook her head sadly, All she'd
wanted was to save the boy some trouble and time.  Oh well.  He'd learn his
mistake soon enough.  Sheathing the skinning knife, she gathered up the jug
of wine she'd come to fetch, and stepped out of the tent.  The boy was
nowhere to be seen.

She stood a long moment, enjoying the soft caress of Holy Mother's Breath as
it toyed playfully with her braids, improvising a tinkling symphony with the
bells and coins platted in her hair.  As a young girl, she had revelled in
the unrestrained madness of No Moons; but age had sobered her spirit.  Now
she much preferred a quiet observance of the Holy Mother's Festival.  She
sighed quietly; at this moment perfectly at peace with her lot in life.
Turning, she bent her steps towards the tent housing the Kharran Clan's
private shrine.

Hidden in the darkness nearby, Kulaan offered a silent apology to his love,
before boosting her over the saddle of the old nag. He swung up behind her.
Lifting the limp form, he turned the sagging body around into a sitting
position, slid an arm about the waist to steady the lolling woman, reached
for the reins -  and they were off at a smart trot.

Almost immediately, Kulaan knew that something was definitely wrong.
Demereen seemed to have grown several inches.  The top of her head was
brushing his cheek.  The hair was not braided; it was short enough to be
indecent on a woman; and the hair was completely unadorned with the leather
thongs and tassels of the Clan Colours.  Without them, in particular, his
Demereen was not decent for a public place.

Also, she felt the "wrong" shape in his arms.  The shoulders were slighter,
the whole body slimmer and more angular.

A horrible realisation crept up from deep within.  He pulled the horse to a
halt under the gate lamp of a Pitching.  He  tilted the head up, peering
into the face.

The woman was a total stranger!

As he sat there gaping, the woman squirmed and grumbled.  Her eyes staggered
open.  She let out a low groan.

"Oh Holy Goddess," Kulaan groaned.  It was not his beloved Demereen.  He had
stolen the wrong woman.  It was a good job he'd discovered this now; if he'd
crossed the river and gained his father's Steading, then he would have been
by all law, custom and tradition, joined in matrimony to the stranger.

The woman's eyes, after roving around a bit, finally came to a focus on
his.  He watched the puzzlement surfacing slowly in a tangled struggle with
surprise.  Then both these  emotions were peremptorily shouldered aside by a
sudden spurt of alarm.  Anger followed in its wake.

She began to struggle out of his encircling arm.  "What?  What - hey - let me
go.  What's your game?"

She lifted her bound hands and aimed a punch at his face. Kulaan easily
intercepted the clumsy blow.  His large hand gripped her wrists, holding
them fast.

"Wait!  Listen!  I can explain..." he began to say, but fell silent as
another, and possibly more pressing matter, caught his attention.

Away down the roadway between the pitched pavilions of the Kulak
Clans, he heard the sound of horses, many horses, coming at the gallop.  From
the heaviness of the hoof-beats, plus the speed with which they came on, he
judged them to be Prairie Runners.

The Khan's men?

It had to be; and there was no way he could out run a squadron of the Khan's
retinue, if they were mounted on Prairie Runners? The great beasts had been
bred in the long ago time, specifically to combine speed with stamina. Granny
Snarken's old hack would have had difficulty out-running a three
legged mule with a following wind let alone a Runner with its tail up.

The strange woman in his arms began to shout at the top of her lungs.  Heads
were thrust through tent flaps.  They began peering round for the source of
the shouting.  Thankfully, there were only a few; most Kulak were enjoying
the festival before Temple; but one was too much.  If he was recognised -
he'd never be able to hold his head up again.  Not only caught yet again on
his Bride Quest, something that should have been a mere formality, but making
off with the wrong woman, to boot!

"Sheep Shit!" Kulaan swore with feeling.  Some of the people who had
looked out of the tents were hurrying over to see what all the fuss was
about.  From the direction of Temple, the sound of the pursuit was coming
 on like a prairie storm over the Kulak.  The damned woman was shouting and
squirming.  Holy Mother Goddess!  What was he going to do.  He just couldn't
think.

Hide?

That was out of the question - with the damned woman squirming and screaming
like a demented cat.  First things first then - shut the woman up!  He let go
of her wrists, intending to clamp a hand over her mouth.  This was a bad
mistake.

"Be quiet,'he cried desperately.  "Please be quiet."

The woman took no notice of his plea.  She hauled off and swung her bound
fists at him.  The blow landed with stunning force, against his left ear.
The next few seconds were utter confusion. Two old women got a hold on him by
the legs, trying to yank him down from the horse.  One was brandishing a
skinning knife in her other hand,  and threatening dire consequences for his
manhood.

The next second he was sliding from the horse.  He crashed to the churned mud
of the way in a confused tangle of limbs.  On the way down, the strange woman
managed to get in another good blow.  They hit, the woman landing across his
chest, winding him badly.  Kulaan gathered himself.  He struggled to rise;
but before he could do more than shove the woman off, men and women came
crowding round.  A large elderly woman squatted on his legs.  She waved a
staff threateningly in his face.  Kulaan relaxed.  What was the point.  If he
struggled too much they'd only beat him the harder.

Beneath him, the ground was vibrating to the pounding hooves of the great
beasts.  A moment later, the troop of Runners came abreast.  Two were out in
front.  On the lead Runner, he recognised the graceful form of Grimlak
Vylian in the glare of the lamps as he swept past.  The look of interest on
the man's face mutated into one of surprise, then incredulous amusement as he
realised what was happening.  The second Runner tore past, at the end of a
long lead rope.  The creature was swerving and plunging as though trying to
break free from the tether.  Hunched over in the saddle, clinging for dear
life with bound hands was...

"Demereen!" Kulaan screamed. He began a mad struggle to rise.

The frightened face of his love flashed in the lamplight.  Kulaan saw the
recognition dawn in her eyes.  Instantly, the Runner stopped trying to break
away as Demereen's thoughts turned from escape to confusion.  The moment
seemed to go on forever.

Demereen screamed.

Time started again.

Her mount leapt to the gallop, and tore away after Grimlak's Runner, its tail
high.  Demereen screamed again; but her cry for help was drowned in the
pounding of the hooves.  A dozen more Runners thundered past, tails high,
their riders holding drawn lances pointed at the sky.

With a burst of effort born of desperation, Kulaan threw off his
captors.  He gained his feet, mind whirling with disbelief, confusion, and
despair.  He started after them on foot.  After a few steps, he stumbled to a
halt.  He half turned back to the old nag.  Some of the men grabbed him.  One
slipped a lariat over his arms, yanking the noose tight with a savage tug
which almost pulled him down. He struggled titanically against the restraint,
but to no avail.  He screamed in sheer frustration; but all that accomplished
was to earn him a renewed beating.

He gave up struggling then, and just stood there watching north along the
road to where his Demereen had been swallowed up by the darkness.


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