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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Eight

The moment the plaintive crying of the Skulking Cranes brought her awake with
a start in the cold gloom of the tent, Marleen knew.  The slight ache in her
stomach, the feeling of nausea creeping up her throat, she knew the signs,
knew them all too well.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears of anger and self pity that
welled into them.  It was so bloody unfair!  So_Bloody_Unfair!  If that
sour-tempered old cow, Meloven, could manage it - why in the Goddess's name
couldn't she?  And it was so important that she, in particular of all
Grimlak's women, did!

Silently, she cursed the Goddess for putting her in this insupportable
situation.  After all the prayers, all the devotion, after all the pain and
the sacrifice of self-esteem, this betrayal was a bitter thing indeed.

Her hands balled into tight fists of anguish.  Gathering up folds of the
blanket, she rolled onto her side and curled into a ball around her misery.
sobbing quietly, she drew the blankets about her.

For a long while she lay there, wallowing in self-pity, while futile tears
ran down her cheeks.  The sounds of the other sleepers in the tent made a
soft murmurous back drop to her despair.  Marleen just wanted to lay there
forever, to deny the world and the harsh cruelties it would bring on this day
especially.  She just did not feel able to face them; but she could not just
lie here forever.  The world was still there, waiting with the patience of
a hunting cat to pounce on her and sink fangs of cruel circumstance in her
soul.  At last, letting out a long, world weary sigh, she rolled onto her
back.  Already, Meloven was stirring; and if she found marleen still abed
when she woke, there would be the painful benediction of the stick to add to
her list of troubles.  That skinny old cow was far too handy with the stick.

The first surge of her self pity ebbed, leaving Marleen strangely calm.  She
sat up and looked around the dark tent with its five sleeping women.  There
really was nothing for it, the thing had to be faced.

Throwing off the blankets, she stood up from the low divan, groped around for
her clothes and pulled them on.  Their clamminess made her shiver; the
unpleasant sensations forced her mind to take another side long step away
from the contemplation of her unhappiness.  If her failure did mean the
Southland and the Western Drift at each others throats again, then so be it.
She had learned the lesson well of the futility of railing against a destiny
which could not be set aside.  Such was the first and harshest law for women
living on the Kulak.  The thing would have to be met, but at least she did
not have to think about that now.  There was plenty of work to be done in a
travelling camp. A lot of the heaviest and most unpleasant fell to her as the
lowest ranked woman of Grimlak Vilian's household.

A tiny groan escaped her at the thought of her husband of three months.
Swaying with sudden reaction, she clung onto the tent pole for support.

"Marleen?" a gentle voice inquired from the dark. There came a swish of
skirts. A hand lightly touched her un-braided hair, still tousled from sleep.
The hand settled tentatively on her shoulder.  "Marleen?  Are you alright
child?"

Marleen nodded, for the moment unable to speak.  She drew in a long calming
breath, pushed the hateful recollections away and straightened up.  She
turned to look into the round, homely face of Olgen, trying on a smile of
reassurance; but she could not make it convincing.  She let her expression
relax.

"Fine," she got out at last.  "I've just got up." It was a lame explanation;
and Marleen knew it.  Olgen was a dear, but Marleen did not feel like
explaining just now.  That would come later.  Just now, she couldn't face the
woman's pity.  She turned to go.

"I'll get the water," she said as she ducked through the tent flap.

Outside, the travelling camp lay still in the grey dawn light.  Nine tents
stood around the edge of a cleared space amid the brooding ruins of the city
of the ancients.  Frost diamonds sparkled on the grass.  To the south, a wide
avenue, lined with trees, led to the river bank.  A stiff breeze was hissing
through the leaves of the trees.  Two huge travelling wagons stood like dark
shadows against the clutter of overgrown ruins along the east side of the
camp.

The rising sun was striking brilliantly from the tops of some of the taller
structures rising above the tumbled ruins.  One tower, which seemed untouched
by time, flamed silver and gold under the caress of the new risen sun.  It
had a startling beauty, spearing sky-wards from the desolation.  Since first
she had been brought out of the Western Drift to be joined to Grimlak, the
sight had always filled marleen's heart with joy.  It seemed somehow a symbol
of hope, not only for her own situation, but also a promise that some day new
life might rise again from the madness and ruin wrought on this city in the
long ago time - and like to be repeated soon because of the impending failure
of her betrothal to Grimlak.

She turned away with a stifled cry.  This morning, the sight of the flaming
tower brought no lifting of her heart, seeming only to mock her with its
rampant male glory.

In a desolate mood, she gathered up some leather buckets and set out for the
river.  As she crossed the camp, one of the innumerable dogs trotted over to
sniff at her with a wolf-sharp muzzle; the dark brown fur was speckled with a
grizzling of grey.  Marleen paused, looking down at the lean working animal.
It dropped its feathered tail, laid ears flat to the skull and whined
quietly.  There was a reproachful look in its gaze.

It knew.

In a sudden spurt of ungovernable fury, marleen aimed a vicious kick at it.
The old dog was too experienced to be caught like that.  It dodged back,
curling lips back to reveal white fangs. Pale yellow eyes glared
reproachfully at her for a long moment, then it deliberately turned its back
on her and padded away to inspect the shadows under one of the wagons.  In
her present state, she was obviously not worth bothering with.  The old dog's
contemptuous dismissal sent a surge of utter wretchedness through Marleen.

Eyes filling with tears of self-pity once more, she started forward again -
only to stop a moment later at the sound that sank a dagger into her heart.
She dropped the buckets and pressed hands to her face in a vain attempt to
stem the flood of tears.

This was too much!  It was simply too much!

Olgen watched the distraught girl from the flap of the sleeping tent, her
expression full of concern.  From one of the other tents, the sound of a baby
crying floated in the stillness of the camp.  The troubled sound subsided
with a gurgle, as the mother put it to the breast.

Alone in the middle of the deserted dawn camp, Marleen forlornly gathered up
the buckets and made her way to the river.

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Kulaan stood at the water's edge, staring at the line of brown which marked
the north shore of the Great Mire, as if by force of will alone, he could
reach it.  The desultory dank breeze dragged at his remaining braids, making
them flutter forlornly.  Every few moments, the boy would cast a beseeching
look back over his shoulder at the group of men and Runners, crowded onto the
highest part of the island, among the fleshy boles of the vine entangled
trees.

In the midst of that fretful group, the outlander Healer knelt with the
Doctor, the woman called Sarah  and Kharran Khan, over the diminutive body
of the Shivan Witch.  They were talking urgently; their voices  carrying
only faintly to Kulaan.

"Well, Harry?" the Doctor asked.

Harry lifted hands from the Shivan's throat.  He shrugged.   "She just
seems to be unconscious, as far as I can tell.  But frankly, I just don't
know.  She's not human, is she?"

"No," the Doctor admitted.

"Isn't there anything you can do t'help, lad?" Kharran Khan inquired.

"What do you suggest?" demanded Harry, rather more sharply than he meant.  He
was a good Doctor, it was not something he did, it was what he was.  Being
unable to help a person in need, distressed him.

A grey muzzle was suddenly lowered between them.  The Shivan's great Prairie
Runner sniffed at the bedraggled body.  Absently, the Doctor stroked the
nose.  He looked up into the large liquid eyes of the beast.  He alone, of
all those there,  felt the animal's distress.  It rasped at the edges of his
latent psi awareness, like a file grinding on iron. "It's alright, old
fellow," he soothed gently.   "Harry's a good chap."

The Runner sniffed at the top of Harry's head, and nickered in distress.  It
was not quieted.  The gentle creature felt the thoughts and fears that the
Doctor did not voice.  It nosed the little body again, while Harry made a few
more aimless examinations.

"D'you think it's  safe to move her?" the Khan asked.

"How can I tell?" Harry wanted to know. "But that's a moot point - surely?
Without the Shivan to guide us, we can't go anywhere. How will we find the
path?"

"We'll just have to risk it without her guidance," the Khan said.  "Whatever
the way of it, the boy's right; we can't stay here too long." He rose and
considered the fretful young man at the edge of the water.  He went on
grimly.  "All that disturbance and blood 'll bring the worms flocking around.
We don't make that move soon, we'll not be makin' it at all!"

Sarah laid a blanket over the Shivan.  She touched a hand to Harry's arm,
aware of how deeply the big navy surgeon took his inability to help a fellow
creature in need.  She glanced at the boy, at the distant shore line, then at
the Doctor.  The Time Lord was stroking the nose of the Runner and looking
thoughtful.  "What are we going to do, Doctor?" she asked.

 The Khan answered her.  "Do m'dear?  What we're going to do, m'dear, is to
cross the Mire.   We can feel for the path with the lances. Have t'move
slowly, of course,  and we'll just have t'risk the worms, but there's no
alternative.  If we stay here, they'll come eventually; and we'll be n'better
off."

The Doctor, who had been looking from the sun standing high in the sky, to
the boy, the Runner and the distant shore line, spoke.  "There might be a
quicker way," he said , his hand stroking the nose of the grey.  He turned to
look up at the liquid eyes regarding him with absolute trust.  "What do you
think, old fellow?  Will it work?"

The Runner nodded solemnly.

"Good!  That's settled then!" the Doctor confirmed briskly.  "Get your men
mounted, Khan.  We're moving out."

The Khan regarded him with a speculative eye.  Tweaking his moustache, he
inquired: "Y'know the path then?  Splendid!  You're a man o'many parts,
Doctor - not just handy with a blade.  Ycan lead us over the Mire?"

"Actually, no." the Doctor grinned disarmingly at him.

"But -"

"But.  This fine fellow can." The Doctor patted the muzzle of the Shivan's
gelding.  "He's been with the Shivan since a foal.  Rubbing up against the
mind of the Shivan for so long, some of the Little Mother's knowledge is sure
to have lodged in there somewhere.  All he needs is a directing will to be
able to use it.  So long as the directing mind can couch the emanations in
the Shivan's mind pattern, it should work."

The Khan looked dubious.  "And you can do that?  Seems t'me it'd take an
almighty Goddess blessed powerful telepath to carry that off," he opined.
"You mean to tell me you're up to that game?"

The Doctor put on is most engaging grin.  "Well.  There really is only one
way to find out, isn't there?" The Doctor turned the Runner towards the edge
of the marsh.  He mounted.  "Let's give it a go, shall we?"

The Doctor urged the grey down to the water's edge and splashed out into the
shining water among the clumps of green reeds.  The Khan's retinue
mounted.  One by one, they trailed after him. Harry, cradling the Shivan
Witch in his lap, brought up the rear.

Fifty yards out, the grey dithered uncertainly for a moment.  The Doctor
leaned forward and patted it's neck.  He crooned some words in a haunting
rhythm.  The Runner tossed its head, whinnied a low counterpoint, and set off
again with a more confident step.  They passed the place of the attack; but
there was only broken reeds and churned mud to mark the place of the
catastrophe.  Sarah shuddered at the frightful memory, and urged her mount to
close up to the animal in front.

In single file, the troop wound on through the growing humidity, pestered by
the clouds of midges.  Winding this way and that, the column moved ever
closer to the line of brown in the north.  The high sun began to incline
westward.  Straggling lines of dots in the sky resolved themselves into
skeins of water fowl, heading for favourite roosts deep in the marsh.  For a
long time, the men saw no sign of worm.  The Doctor was just beginning to
hope, when the grey stopped dead.  The Doctor leaned over the animal's neck,
crooning encouragement; but the Runner refused to move.

Fifty yards to the west, a bank of reeds thrashed in a wild frenzy.  A moment
later the sinuous bulk of a giant Bog Worm reared up.  Silvery streams of
water runnelled down the carnivorous monstrosity.  The sunlight struck an
iridescent shimmer from its black skin.  The irregular patches of yellow on
the head pulsed.  The blunt snout quested about, scenting for fresh blood.
Talon tipped tentacles scythed the air below the tooth studded maw in
agitation.  Powerful muscles rippled along its snaking form; and it began to
surge with deadly purpose in their direction.

"A mature bull!" the Khan exclaimed, looking suddenly very pale.  All
down the column of men, weapons were drawn.

The Doctor felt in his pocket, and drew out the sonic screwdriver.  He was
fairly confident that it would hold off the beast, but at what cost?
Shiv might die?  One life for many?  And even if she did not, the feisty
little woman would undoubtedly suffer severe brain damage.  The Doctor's jaw
set grim, a recent memory playing over and over in his mind.  Once more, he
was crouching in the grey functionality of the corridor of the Dalek Brood
Chamber, smelling the acrid stink of the brood fluids, and feeling the
uncertainties churning in his soul.

What if?

"Keep moving," he urged.  "So long as there's only one, we have a chance."

An incoherent shout of alarm from Sarah brought heads snapping around.
Hearts sank. A Vee wake was closing swiftly from the east.  Fifty yards
distant, the worm broke the surface.  It reared fifteen feet of glistening
blue-black body from the water.  Sparkling silver droplets streamed from its
blind head.  Marsh detritus slimed down its flanks.  The tentacles whirled
and hissed in the air.  It began to slide through the stagnant water
towards them.

They were done for - trapped between two of the ferocious carnivores.

The Khan stood up in the stirrups and studied first one worm, then the
other.  He sat back down in the saddle and, unexpectedly, let out a mighty
shout of gleeful laughter.

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It was just another of those little niggling things that so got her down
 that day.  No matter how marleen moved around the cooking hearth, the smoke
would follow her like a grey ghost of ill-omen.  The Breath of Holy Mother
was restless and fickle this morning.  The griping nausea of the Goddess's
Sorrow, too, was particularly wearisome - apart from the unwanted certainty
of disaster it bespoke.

Perhaps the Goddess simply had it in for her?

The thought ought to have been absurd; but it worried away at marleen like a
tiresome dog.  She had never been particularly devout, or careful of the
observances, until these last three months. She had never supposed that the
Holy Mother Goddess of the Kulak, with the care of so many other more
important people to look to, could have possibly missed the devotions she had
so willfully neglected to give.

 A drift of insubstantial grey swirled in Marleen's face.  She moved again,
coughing as the smoke caught in her throat.  With the back of a hand, she
wiped tears from her stinging eyes.  Dipping the paddle into the steaming
pot, she resumed stirring the stew listlessly.

A similar air of listlessness hung about the travelling camp.  Almost
everybody was away enjoying the Festival at Temple.  There was little work to
be done, save the daily chores of keeping the camp in order.  It was a dead
time; life was paused for the Night of No Moons; and nothing much would
happen until the Lord Grimlak returned with his chief shepherds.

Marleen let out a little groan of misery.  She was not looking forward to the
return of her husband.

Husband?

That was, she knew with a bitter certainty, somewhat of an impertinent
presumption on her part.  Grimlak's return would bring her not the
questionable joy of a formal pledging before a Priestess of the Holy Mother
Goddess, but only misery and disgrace.  It was a fact undeniable, in her
present wretched condition.

In a sudden taking of misery and self-loathing, she slumped down on the seat,
letting go the paddle.  It slipped out of sight into the bubbling stew.
Marleen barely noticed; she had buried her face in hands and set herself to
sobbing with considerable determination.

It wasn't even as if she wanted to be that crazy animal's wife!  Goddess
alone knew!  she did NOT want that!  Grimlak's usage of her was permitted by
the Law, though not generally custom.  The man's savagery and brutality, that
she could stand, she was Kulak bred, from the tips of her toes to the top of
her head; but being unable to qualify to be his wife - that was a more far
reaching disaster - one which would most likely embroil the Western Drift and
the Southland in a bitterly contested range war.

Either way, Marleen lost.  If she did not qualify this time, then she would
be free of the obligations of her Briding; but what would be the use of that
 with the Clans in uproar; and who would want Grimlak's leavings anyway?
Certainly not his Bondsman, Bryllaan?

The tormented girl let out a long wail of hopeless anguish, and tried to
force down the memory of just five mornings gone by; but that memory had a
power to call upon, which was stronger than Marleen's resolve.

Going down to the river in the dawn to fetch the water, she had been
distracted by the sound of chopping wood.  She had discovered, among the
trees, Grimlak's handsome young Bondsman.  Bryllaan had been stripped to the
waist, his long black mane tied in a pony tail.  The rising sun had struck a
golden glory from the sweat beading his bare torso.  The muscles had rippled
smoothly under his tawny flesh as he chopped wood with an almost magical
economy of motion.  The sight fair stole her breath away.

Bryllaan, sensing that he was observed, paused with axe held on high.  He
looked up, and smiled, flashing her a friendly greeting with his dark eyes.
Marleen's heart nearly stopped.  She dropped the two leather buckets,
spilling the water.  Her legs trembled so, she was forced to lean against a
tree to compose herself.

It was a defining moment in marleen's short life.  She had always been
attracted to the young man, since first laying eyes on him in the escort that
had come to her father's camp to carry her off to her betrothal.  All
throughout the journey, she had been acutely aware of the man's cheerful and
amiable presence.  In the normal course of things, she would have wasted no
time in declaring herself for Bryllaan; but her betrothal to Grimlak was a
matter of state; and such a frivolous thing as love, could not be allowed to
carry any weight in consideration of such matters.  Her marriage was a part
of the so far less than entirely successful attempts to smooth over the
tensions stirred up by the recent bitter range disputes.  A fertile woman
was the most precious gift one Clan could bestow upon another.  Marleen
had been that ultimate gift, given in hopes of averting the impending open
warfare which seemed to be rushing upon the people, as unstoppable as the
vicious summer storms which burst over the Kulak.

Bryllaan loved her.  Of this she was certain; for he made it plain in a
hundred little ways.  Yes, Bryllaan loved her, of this there was no doubt; but
she knew also that even if the outbreak of a savage and senseless war did not
rest on her ability to conceive Grimlak's child, it would be like to
clutching straws in a gale to rely on that love should she dare to have the
impertinence to declare for Bryllaan as the failed leavings of his Bond Lord.

Surely, no man had so little pride?...

"Lazy slut!"

The plangent tones of Meloven jolted Marleen from her reverie.  The
day-dreaming girl started up, and cringed away from the stick raised on high.
Meloven swung the cane down vigorously.  With a sickening thwack, the stout
stick cracked painfully across Marleen's shoulders.  She yelped with pain,
and stumbled back a step.

A sudden anger seized her at sight of Meloven, bearing down on her, at the
overwhelming injustice of the world, at the Goddess, but mostly at this
vicious bitch-sister of Grimlak's household.

As Meloven raised the cane again, without really thinking, marleen tore the
stick from the thin woman's hands.  She raised it over her head.  She'd had
just about all she could take of Meloven's handiness with the cane.

The Goddess held her breath, while marleen's intent swung in the scales of
her rage.  The punishment for raising a stick to Grimlak's sister would not
be significantly different were she to smash it into that thin, sour face.
Yes!  By the Goddess! It would be just as well to have the satisfaction of
venting her anger and dislike on the woman - she might as well be hung for
the sheep as the lamb.

If the Clans wanted to tear themselves to pieces over the rights to run sheep
on this bit of grassland, or that, what was that to her now?  With her
failure to conceive, the matter had already passed out of her hands.

It was the baby that decided the issue.

Meloven had her new baby with her, slung in a carry pouch against her thin
chest.  She had been bent on tormenting Marleen by parading up and down in
front of her, cuddling and fussing over it.  Meloven considered it a fine
sport; and the only thing the brat was good for.  When she was not using it
to torment the worthless peace gift of the Western Drift, she generally left
it for one of the other women to see to.

The baby let out a tiny mew of displeasure, and waved a chubby pink fist in
the air.  Marleen was incapable of hurting a baby - no matter what the
provocation.  While she hesitated, Meloven snatched the stick back.  She
raised it on high.  She had no such qualms about using the stick.  Marleen,
realising the blind fury her action had provoked in the Clan woman,
 backed away.  Her calves connected with the settle at the hearth, and she
sat down hard.  The jolt intensified the griping nausea of the Goddess's
Sorrow churning her vitals.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Marleen cowered under her arms, readying herself to
endure the beating.  Nothing happened; no painful blows rained down on her.
She risked opening her eyes.  She saw that Meloven had lowered the stick. The
woman was peering down at her, a sadistic smile curling her mouth into a
cruel bow.

"Well now.  What can be the matter with our little Pewit, I wonder?" she
cooed, her voice dripping with mock concern.  Marleen did not answer.  She
wouldn't give the woman the satisfaction.  The muddy end of the stick prodded
at her belly.

"I said, is_something_wrong?"

Without looking up, Marleen spat out:  "You bloody well know what's wrong!
You heartless bitch!"

"Oh!  Such disrespectful language!" Meloven exclaimed with a pretense of
scandalised disapproval.  She addressed her remarks to the baby, which she
held up in front of her in the embroidered carrying pouch. She shook her head
in a mockery of resignation at such a thing.  "Well, I suppose it's only to
be expected, from the mouth of a woman of the Pewit Clan - one of those
raggedy arsed poor cousins of the Western Drift, and a fold born to boot -
the daughter of a penniless shepherd!" Her voice took on a tone of
viciousness.  "We really must humour the slut, mustn't we, Petkin?  After
all, she does have the Sorrow on her, the_Third_Sorrow; so we won't have to
put up with the lazy slut's uncooth barbarian accents much longer - will we
my little Lambkin?"

The baby gurgled with pleasure.

Like mother like son, Marleen thought vindictively; but said nothing, her
hands twisting in the rough folds of her woolen skirt.  A little mew of want
rose from the baby. The sound drove a dagger into Marleen's heart.

"Is my little Petkin hungry?" Meloven cooed.  "Well.   We can't have that -
now, can we?"

Making far more fuss than necessary, Meloven unwound the indigo nursing shawl
and put the tiny bundle of life to herself.  For a while she strolled up and
down cooing and making a great fuss of the baby at her breast.  She knew of
far more excruciating tortures for the barbarian slut than the
straightforward pain of the stick.  And when she had squeezed every ounce of
enjoyment out of this particular game, there was always what she had seen the
other morning from concealment of some bushes by the river.

She had just slipped in to the underbrush to relieve herself, when she heard
a noise like water being sloshed and the sound of the boy, Bryllaan chopping
had ceased abruptly.  She'd looked out to see the slut leaning against a
tree, overthrown by a fit of passion.  And, she'd instantly understood the
cause of the slut's passionate taking.  A smile of purest sadistic pleasure
had twisted her thin face at the thought of the use to which she could put
such a juicy tid bit of information.  Her brother would skin the boy alive
with a blunt knife when he found out.  The thought of the blood and screaming
was only marginally less exciting than the torment the slut would suffer at
her brother's just retribution.

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

"What luck!" the Khan bellowed.  "What marvelous luck!  Truly the Goddess
rides at our side in this mad venture!"

"What is it?" Sarah shouted to the man in front of her.

He turned in the saddle to answer her, his face split by a broad grin.  "It's
a female," he explained, pointing at the blue coloured worm closing from the
right.  "That old bull'll have eyes only for that fine lady now.  They've
both got far more important business on their minds than eating us right
now."

At the head of the column, the Khan rose in his stirrups and signalled "walk
forward".  On his command, the Runners started forward.  Behind them, in the
waters of the marsh, a beautiful dance was beginning.  It was an old dance,
one that had been ancient even before the dinosaurs had held sway on old
Earth.  This was the mating dance of the Bog Worms of the Great Mire, and it
was a dance as old as life herself.  A long, slow sensual gyration of snake
bodies it was, an intimate inter-weaving of male with female.  For hours, the
two coiling bodies would writhe together about each other in the drawn out
preliminaries to the mating proper.  That intermingling interpenetration of
bodies would take place in the intimate darkness of the mud far below the
surface of the shining waters.

A hundred yards clear of the joyously entwining behemoths, the Khan signalled
"halt".

"There's no danger now," he told the Doctor.  "When they mate, there is a
release of territory marking  oils.  Not another worm will come within five
miles of this spot for weeks.  Stops t'beggars eating each other's eggs,
d'yer see?" He stood up in the stirrups and studied the coiling,
twining,shimmering green an blue mass of flesh in the water.  "Quite a
spectacle, what?  We're privileged t'witness this."

It was indeed a fascinating spectacle; and they might have loitered much
longer; but there was more pressing business.  Reluctantly, the Khan
signalled the "walk forward"; and they moved off, leaving the two enraptured
beasts coiled in their mating embrace.

A short time later, the troop scrambled up a steep slope onto a long bar of
solid ground leading away toward the north west.  Once up on the hard footing
of the causeway, they made better progress.  Breaking into a ground shaking
canter, it was only minutes before they thundered up the grassy slope of the
northern shore, and rode out under the screen of trees onto the grassy plain
beyond.  To the north west, the ground swelled up in a vast whale back mound,
thickly grown with grass, clear of trees.  At the ridge of the mound, the
bare bones of the world showed through.  The low sandstone cliffs, fractured
by irregular fissures, glowed like broken and blood stained teeth in the
westering sun.

The Khan signalled the halt.  He pointed at the rising
ground.  "Mourndoon Ridge," he informed the Doctor.  "Road from the south
passes the western end and cuts back northeast t'the bridge at Nooplennes.
If the Goddess still rides with us then we'll cut that bastard off at the
bridge."

While the Khan held a brief council of war with Nylan, the men readied their
armaments. The Doctor dismounted. He ran quickly over to check on Harry and
the Shivan.  The navy doctor handed him down the still unconscious woman.
The Doctor set the  Little Mother down gently on a blanket which Sarah had
already spread.  He knelt quickly, examining the skin of her face with
probing finger tips. The clammy feel of the skin worried him.  He rose.
Behind him the runners were forming up.  The Doctor glanced quickly at them,
then turned his attention to Harry, who had dismounted, and was kneeling over
the Shivan Witch.

"Do what you can for her, Harry,"  he commanded.  "I'll be back as soon as I
can."

"Hey!" Sarah cried.  "Wait for me."

"Stay here, Sarah," the doctor shot back over his shoulder.  "Look after
the Witch."  He flung himself back into the high saddle  and spurred his
mount after the departing men.

Sarah took no notice of his orders.  She had absolutely no intention of
being left behind. Having come this far, she was determined to be in at the
death. She made a scrambling attempt to mount on the huge beast; but the ride
had left her at the end of her strength.  She just could not haul herself up.

"Harry?  Harry? Help me!"

There was no answer. The tall man lay stretched out on the grass beside his
diminutive charge, snoring gently.

Sarah said some very rude words with great feeling.  She felt very tempted to
go over and kick him awake; but it was already too late.  The troop of
horsemen were climbing the lower slopes of the ridge.  She glowered after
them.  Setting hands on hips, she stood with an irritated expression,
watching the Runners diminishing with the growing distance as they thundered
up the eastern end of the ridge. In a couple of minutes, they were out of
sight over the shoulder.  Then she went to sit down beside the other two.  In
half a minute, she was snoring soundly.

Moments later, the sound of many Runners travelling fast shook the ground
once more.  The new set of hoof-beats penetrated the fog of confusion
muffling the Shivan's awareness.  Her eyes fluttered open.  She lay a long
moment, frowning in puzzlement at the puffs of white cloud scurrying westward
across the blue immensity of the sky.  Sudden consternation crossed her sharp
featured face.

Sitting up abruptly, she turned her gaze into the west.  Galloping
out of the spreading red stain of sunset she could make out a band of men
mounted on Runners. They were pushing the mounts hard, along the southern
margin of the ridge, towards where she lay.  If they kept on their track,
they would pass within three hundred yards.

This was all wrong.  The Khan had made a bad mistake.  He'd got it all wrong;
and she had no time to warn him.



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