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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Nine

To ease the discomfort in her legs and back, Demereen shifted carefully in
the saddle.  Around her, amid the trees of the roadside copse, the raiding
party sat, resting their blowing mounts.  They were awaiting Grimlak's signal
to move.

 From the deep shadow,  Demereen peered back down the road, into the orange
haze of sunset.  Kulaan was there!  She could see him, out in front, leading
the charge.  His face, over the neck of his straining mount, was set grim.
At his left side, her father spurred his Runner to greater speed, leaning
forward over the arcing neck of the black mare.

A vast cloud of dust billowed in their wake, tinted a deep mauve by the level
rays of the setting sun.  Racing before that cloud, her father's retinue
thundered up the road out of the south, hell bent on rescue.  Green pennants
flew at lance tips, fluttering madly in the wind.  Each one bore the Silver
Eagle of the Kharran Clan,  the shining steel blades stained red as blood by
the sunset.  All about, the Mother Earth trembled with the wrath of their
vengeful passage.

Grimlak, noticing Demereen's rooted stare, urged his piebald gelding over
beside the chestnut brown mare on which she had been tied. He turned his gaze
back down the empty road.  Smiling darkly, he asked: "What fascinates you so
in the south, wife?"

Demereen flinched at his use of the word "wife".  She would not look at him.
"He'll come!" she ground out; but Grimlak's taunting tone had shivered her
wish visions into nothing.  The dust cloud was just that, a cloud settling on
the horizon, reddening the sunset.  The pounding of the charge she could hear
so clear was the sound of her heart; and the riders she saw were mere
phantoms of her fancy.

Demereen dropped her head, looking down at her bound hands, so that he should
not see the sudden starting of tears.  She shifted again, trying to ease the
discomfort.  Being tied on the runner meant that she was unable to flow with
the animal as it ran, and was forced to sit there rigid, bounced and jolted
like a sack of beans.  Her inner thighs had been rubbed raw; and she ached
all over.

"He WILL come," she affirmed; but her assertion lacked conviction - even to
her own ears.

"No doubt," Grimlak sneered.  "The boy's a tryer, I'll give the puppy that.
But he'll not come this way.  I know your father, the way he thinks.  Right
about now, I judge, he's reaching the eastern edge of the Mourndoon Ridge,
hoping to pass over the eastern shoulder and cut us off from the bridge at
Nooplennes?"

Urging his animal closer, he stretched out a long arm, to stroke her hair.
Demereen ducked away from his touch.  Grimlak smiled indulgently at her
futile attempt to evade his hand.  "This game is over!  Accept the fact of it
WIFE!" he said.  "There's nothing anyone, least of all your father or that
fold born whelp, can do to stop me now." Reaching out, he stroked a finger
over Demereen's prominent cheek bones.  She ducked aside, her flesh crawling
at the caress.  "In a few minutes, wife, we'll be across the Nooplennes River
and you WILL truly be my wife by all Law and Custom of the Kulak.  Nothing
can change that fact now - so you'd best get used to it!"

"There is still the Challenge," Demereen shot back defiantly.

"Ah yes.  The Challenge?  Of course, the young puppy will challenge me, won't
he?" Grimlak observed in a dangerously mild tone.  His smile grew vicious.
He went on: "Why then, wife, I shall have the pleasure of carving the little
fool into dog meat as an appetiser to breaking you to your wifely duties."

He reached to stroke her cheek again.  Demereen turned her head aside, trying
to squirm out of his reach.  Suddenly Grimlak made a lunge.  His fingers
looped through the leather thongs tied about her neck.  He twiddled them
between his fingers, rage gathering in his face.  "What's this?" he demanded.

Demereen tried to wriggle away from him, but she was tied too tightly to the
saddle.  Grimlak yanked on the thongs.  The little whistle popped from the
neckline of her shirt to dangle on the leather thongs before her face.

"Well now.  What's this?  A love token of that young puppy, no doubt? I'll
not have it!  No wife of mine will wear the totem of another man!" He
snatched at the thongs, trying to tear them off over Demereen's head.  The
strings got tangled in her braids, setting the silver bells jingling.

It was suddenly very important to Demereen that the bestial man should not
sully Kulaan's love token with his hans.  In desperation, she lunged at him,
sinking her teeth into his hand.  She bit down with all her strength.  Teeth
ground on bone;  Grimlak grunted in pain, taken by  surprise at the sudden
attack.  He ripped his hand free. Blood oozed from the bite marks.

Grimlak stared astonished at the wound for a long moment, then a cold fury
gripped his handsome features.  With a snarl of anger, he back-handed her
savagely across the face with his good hand.  The force of the blow knocked
Demereen sideways in the saddle.  She would have fallen, had she not been
tied to the Runner.  She raised her bound hands to her bruised mouth.  Blood
began to seep from her split lip, and trickle down her chin.

"You'll pay dear for that!  wife!" Grimlak promised.  He was seething with
barely controlled fury.  He drew back to strike her again.  Demereen cringed,
terrified by the maniacal light blazing in his eyes.

The blow never fell.  Instead, he drew his blade. Snatching up the whistle,
he slashed the thongs, and glared at the token a long heartbeat, before
hurling it away into the shadows under the trees.  Demereen followed the tiny
scrap of wood with eyes full of fear, marking where it fell among the legs of
the resting Runners.  It was lost to view in the undergrowth; but Demereen
continued to stare fixedly at the spot where it had vanished.

Grimlak sheathed the knife and turned to one of his men.  "Where's that
signal.  If that dog, Varan,  has fallen asleep,  i'll personally skin him
alive with a blunt knife!"

An uneasy stir ran through the men.  All eyes turned to look into the north
east.  There, the prairie swelled up in a great whale back to form the
Mourndoon Ridge, topped with its broken teeth of blood coloured rock.
Somewhere, Grimlak new, the Khan and Demereen's young swain were making north
east towards the far end of the ridge.  They were hoping to swing round
behind then down across the flood plain of the river to cut them off from the
bridge.  Grimlak had a plan to counter that.  He intended to swing in behind
them when they were committed, and head towards the ford at Eisens Crossing,
about three miles beyond the eastern end of the ridge.  He doubted that the
Khan would have the presence of mind to station some men there.  Even if the
old fool had, there were more of his own men waiting across the river in the
fringes of the ruins of Nooplennes.  They could be across the ford in minutes
if necessary to harry and hold up the Khan's party - if he had the presence
of mind to detail off a detachment at all?  And even if he did, it would only
be a small party.  Grimlak felt certain the Khan would go for the bridge - he
was very predictable.

 Smiling at his own cleverness, Grimlak  peered through the trees, along the
grassy slopes of the ridge. Where was that signal?  He shifted in his saddle
and noticed Demereen's abstraction. His heart filled with jealous
hatred; fury once more surged into his face.  He spurred the Runner with
 vicious savagery,  driving it to trample the ground  over and over where the
whistle had fallen.  The great flat iron shod feet stamped  down,
churning the soft mold into a chaos of broken twigs and crushed
undergrowth.

Demereen let out a tiny despairing cry. In her mind's eye, she imagined
the tiny whistle crushed to flinders.  Pressing hands to her bloodied face,
she began to cry openly.

"My Lord!"

The shout came from the man with the farseeing optic to his eyes.  He lowered
them.  "Sir! The signal!  It's the signal!"

Grimlak dragged his animal around, his fury over Kulaan's love token
evaporating on the instant.  "We Ride!  We Ride!" he yelled.  An unholy smile
of triumph disfigured his handsome features.  One mad dash!  and the baggage
would be his by right of bride quest!

He grabbed up the lead rope of Demereen's mount and pulled its head savagely
around.  He spurred his Runner into motion, steering the animal through the
small road side copse. Demereen's mount froze in indecision as it tried to
obey both sets of mental imperatives - Grimlak's to move and Demereen's to
stand.  The violent tug on the lead rope decided the issue. The runner
started forward with a lurch, jolting Demereen against her bonds.  The sudden
pain shocked Demereen into confusion. Released from her will, the beast
followed meekly in the wake of Grimlak's piebald gelding.

Once clear of the trees, Grimlak stood in the stirrups and yelled: "Ride!
You dogs!  Ride!" and urged his mighty runner forward.  The animal snorted
and took off in a great leaping bound.

In the centre of the galloping animals, Demereen clung on for dear
life.  A secret smile on her bloody lips.   Kulaan's totem was safe.  The
hooves of the great beast had not succeeded in crushing it.  She held that
thought close to her heart and rejoiced in the small victory over the vile
Grimlak.   It gave her hope where there should have been none at all.

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The Khan's squadron swept over the shoulder of the hill in a tight formation.
Below, in front and to their right, the view opened out in a flat expanse of
plain perhaps two miles wide, bounded on the north by the river.  Beyond that
deep water filled gash a hundred yards broad, sprawled the broken and tumbled
buildings of Nooplennes, all grown about with trees and undergrowth.

Kulaan barely noticed the overgrown ruins beyond the river, his attention was
on the road cutting obliquely across their path from the south west.  The
pale ribbon of paved way headed straight as an arrow, across the plain,
towards the ancient stone and metal bridge over the river.  From his position
high up on the northern flank of Mourndoon Ridge, he could see for miles
along the road.  It was empty of all traffic; and the bridge was but a mile
and a half distant to the west.  He let out a great shout of triumph.  The
road was empty.  They had made it in time.  Nothing now could stop them from
gaining the road, blocking the bridge and cutting off that bastard, Grimlak.

At the head of the thundering echelon of Runners, the Khan rose in the
stirrups, raised his right hand, and signaled "Do or Die".  The tight
squadron of horse leapt forth, cutting obliquely across the back slop of the
hill.  The formation broke up as the men spurred every last ounce of speed
from their tired mounts.

A savage grin settled on the Khan's lips.  By the Goddess, they had done it!
He glanced back at Kulaan.  His heart went out to the boy.  He deserved this
bit of luck, he was a trier; and it was fitting that he should be in at the
death. What a story the balladeers would make of the wild ride.

It was Nylan who first noticed the signs that spelled disaster. His eyes were
everywhere, watching for danger. It just happened that he was looking up at
the crest of the ridge, when a man stood up on the sky line and made a signal
with his arms.  Nylan's quick mind, attuned for years to military
strategies, saw in an instant the looming disaster.  With a suddenly sick
heart, he realised that it could not be avoided.  They were committed to the
wrong course of action.

He snatched up his signal bugle on its leather lariat and blew for attention.
The Khan's head snapped around, eyes questioning.  Nylan pointed to the man
on the skyline with his lance.  The Khan saw the beauty of Grimlak's strategy
in a flash, and had to admit that it was good.  Grimlak was a devious dog.
He should have remembered that!  He signalled frantically to Nylan.  The
guard captain had not waited for his Clan Chief.  Already, the notes of the
"Rally and Reform" were echoing from the hillside, and rolling away to the
river.

The wildly charging horsemen swung right, down-slope towards the river.  It
was a masterful turn about, they even managed to pull in the formation, but
even the most dullard of them by now knew what had happened and that no
matter how fast they came about and made for the ford, they had lost too much
ground.

All the land to the east trended downwards.  The ford of Eisens Crossing lay
about four miles distant to the east.  As the slope fell away on their right,
opening a view of the Great Mire, to the south, every rider noted the tight
knot of Runners going hell for leather into the narrowing wedge of grassland
bracketed by river and marsh.  A mile north west of the conjunction was the
ford of Eisens Crossing.

The Khan spurred his black mare in mounting fury.  The gallant old girl
sprang to the task, knowing the need of her rider, desperately straining to
answer it; but all was lost.  The other horsemen were closing fast on the
ford, trailing a plume of dust tinted mauve by the setting sun.  Fifty yards
only separated them from the river.

The Khan bellowed with impotent rage and urged his mare to even greater
speed.  Magnificently, she obliged and he drew out in front, only the Doctor,
Nylan and Kulaan still managing to stay with him.  The whole plain was
shaking with the thunder of pounding hooves.  Heeling left around a swell of
ground, the quartet of riders raced into the dip leading down to the ford.
So close behind the villain were they that they were riding through the muck
kicked up by Grimlak's party.

As the view of the ford opened before the four pursuers, they all caught
their breath in utter amazement at what they saw.  The surprise slamming
through Kulaan's mind knocked his beast right off its stride.  The Runner
pecked the ground hard, and almost went down.  How the boy stayed in the
saddle was a miracle.  The Doctor broke left.  Nylan broke right, both
narrowly avoiding a disastrous collision.  The Khan's mount, forced right by
Kulaan's out of control beast, careened into a willow sapling, smashing it to
ruin, before pulling up in an explosion of dirt, stones, and broken branches.

 in the middle of the river was the Shivan Witch's grey. It stood defiantly
 in hock-deep water to meet the murderous charge of Grimlak's men.  The noble
head was held high. On the rump stood the Shivan, grey robes a-flutter and
 her black mane streaming.  The diminutive form was holding up both bare
arms, fists clenched, as though to call down the wrath of the Goddess upon
her enemies.  Whatever magic she was attempting to evoke, it proved powerless
against the charge.

In a tight formation, with Demereen corralled in the centre, Grimlak's
Runners thundered into the water, kicking up a great curtain of spray.
Rainbow colours shimmered in the air, struck from the flying droplets by the
level rays of the sun.  Seen through that shimmering halo of light, the
inevitable events unfolded with brutal starkness.  Grimlak's Runner careened
into the Grey.  Forced onwards by those coming behind, the galloping pie-bald
gelding shouldered aside the grey.  It went down kicking and screaming under
the great iron shod hooves of the flank riders.  The little woman on its back
went over backwards, disappearing in the melee of trampling hooves.  For long
seconds all was a mad confusion of jostling, kicking and lunging animals.

At the back of the squadron, Bryllaan, by dint of superb horsemanship, managed
to guide his mount out of the charge at the last moment.  He detoured around
the melee in the crossing place and rode out a dozen yards down stream on
the far bank.

The others, riding out of the ford, wheeled about to face the river, and
stood waiting with lowered lances.

A dreadful silence descended as the two groups confronted each other across
the muddied water.  In the middle of the fording place, the grey lay on its
side, half submerged.  It began to struggle.  The water reddened suddenly
with the mortally wounded creature's life blood.  Then the Runner began to
scream.  Of the Shivan Witch, there was no sign.

"I'd better tend to the poor beast," the Khan growled, to cover his rising
concern over the fate of the Little Mother.  Grim faced, he swung his leg
across and slithered from the blowing Runner to the ground.  Drawing his
broad bladed skinning knife, he moved to the water's edge.

Suddenly, the Shivan was there.  She stood waist deep in the muddy water, her
hair in rats tails, draggling over her blood spattered robes.  Meeting the
Khan's eyes with grim resolution, she held out an imperious hand for the
knife.  He surrendered it without a word.  The Shivan Witch turned and waded
back to the stricken animal.  It was still thrashing feebly.  Blood was
frothing in its nostrils.

The Shivan lay a hand on the neck.  Instantly, the gelding quieted.  The
Shivan whispered a few words in a strange, chanting language. She leaned in
close, and kissed the neck of the mortally wounded creature.  The knife
flashed.

Red arterial blood jetted up into the last rays of the setting sun.  In that
moment, the Breath of Holy Mother died.  The pennants at lance tips stopped
their incessant fluttering.  The riders in the Khan's party muttered a prayer
and made the sign to call down a blessing of the Goddess to succour the brave
spirit of the unfortunate animal.

Of those on the north bank, all save Grimlak dropped their heads in shame.
The Kulak Lord continued to hold his head high, looking on the grisly scene
with an expression of contempt.  Demereen, unable to do anything else, buried
her face in her bound hands and began to cry softly for the fate of the
Shivan's Runner.

The Witch rose from the dead animal, white and terrible of face.  She seemed
almost to swell into a giantess in the orange light, while remaining a small
diminutive figure, waist deep in the red running river.  She lifted her
bloody hand which gripped the knife, and pointed it at the group on the north
bank.  Slowly, inexorably, her gaze travelled from man to man, marking each.
None would meet her eyes.  At last, she came to Grimlak.  Her gaze lingered,
laden with a curse, awesome, irrevocable and terrible.  The dire threat hung
between them for a long heart beat, then the Shivan did a little double nod
of her head.  "Marked!  And doubly marked!" she muttered, her quiet voice
sounding loud in the still air.

"Enough of your damned spelling, Witch!  Enough!  I say!" Grimlak exploded to
cover his sudden fear.  To be cursed by a Shivan Witch was not a thing to be
taken lightly.  He hefted his lance, held it on high, as though to hurl it at
the tiny figure.  Off to one side, Bryllaan weighed the lance he held ready.
His hot gaze bored into the snarling tiger head in the middle of Grimlak's
back.  Just there, he decided was where he would put the blade if Grimlak
made to cast at the Little Mother - despite the knowledge that it would
spark a savage and senseless war between the Western Drift and the
Southland Clans.

The certainty that he would_ do_ it horrified him.

The moment stretched out, wanting of resolution.  Then, when the tension had
grown unendurable, from along the river bank, the plaintive cry of a Skulking
Crane quavered into the still air, like the despairing moan of the Goddess
bemoaning the fate of her beloved children.

For a long time, nothing moved.  Then with a grunt, Grimlak
up-ended his spear and hammered the point into the hard ground.  The tension
broke.  The Mother began to breathe again.  Reeds rustled and hissed in the
forever wind; higher up the bank, grass rippled and the leaves of the trees
about the ruins resumed their quiet susurration.  Bryllaan gave up a tiny
prayer of gratitude to the Great Mother and lowered his lance.

Unawares of how close he had come to death, Grimlak looked across the river
at the Khan's group, singling out Kulaan.  He drew in a deep breath and spoke
in a loud ringing voice.  "By Custom, by Tradition, and by Law, I claim the
Lady Demereen as wife.  She is mine by all Kulak customs and Codes.  Unless
-" He broke off and aimed his most contemptuous sneer right at Kulaan.
"Unless -  there is someone who will challenge me for the right to get their
bastards on this pretty baggage?"

"NOOOO!" Demereen screamed.    "KULAAN! NOOO!" she screamed again, as Kulaan
shook of the Khan's hand and moved to draw his lance.

"Be silent, wife!" Grimlak bellowed.  He back-handed her savagely across the
face.  The blow re-opened her split lips; more blood dribbled down her chin.
She slumped in the saddle, subsiding with a whimper.

Across the red running water, the strength of the wiry little captain of
guards, the considerable bulk of the Khan, and the superhuman power of the
Doctor, were barely sufficient to restrain the wildly screaming young man.

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In a mood as gloomy as the coming twilight, the Khan's group crossed to the
north bank.  Nearby the river, under the fringes of the trees about the
ruins, they gathered in a despondent silence.  Dismounting, they stripped the
Prairie Runners of harness; then the great beasts were hobbled and turned
loose to forage among the ruins.

Grim faced, the men set about organising a riding camp.  This amounted to
little more than lighting fires and squatting around them while they awaited
the arrival of the running party of the Khan's household.  While all this was
going on, the Doctor re-mounted and slipped quietly away to fetch Sarah and
Harry.  By the time he brought the exhausted pair into the camp, several
large fires were blazing along the river bank, making a lambent orange light
dance on the dark water, and menacing shadows to pulse among the ruins under
the trees.

As soon as the Doctor halted their Runners, Sarah and Harry slid to the
ground.  They lay down by one of the fires and, almost before their heads
touched the ground, fell into an exhausted sleep.  Neither of them stirred
again until the party of camp followers arrived four hours later.

With Clonhilden at its head, a straggle of some twenty heavily laden Prairie
Runners, and a dozen or so horses, splashed across the ford and entered the
camp.  Their promptness bespoke a hard ride.  The beasts were staggering with
exhaustion.  Dozens of men, women and older children, clung on among the
bundles and packages.  In the uncertain light of the camp fires, the
tiredness showed clearly in their wind blown, dust begrimed faces.

The Khan rose to greet the newcomers. Handing down Clonhilden, he pushed back
the woman's braided hair from her face and kissed her fondly.

"What ever would I do without you, Clonny, to run my household?" the Khan
mused, when he had finished with her lips.  His voice was full of a
wistful gentleness.

Clonhilden pushed him away.  "Just you make certain you don't have to find
out." she scolded; but there was no malice in it; for she had been touched by
his show of affection.  The Household Matriarch, the fond gleam renewed in
her dark eyes, turned to the column of waiting beasts.  "MAKE CAMP!" she
bellowed.

In moments, the open space by the river was a whirl of hectic industry.  Men
slid to the ground, and turned to hand down the children.  Next the packs
were un-strapped by the women and lowered to the waiting hands below.  Almost
before the bundles touched earth, the women followed.  With energy and
despatch, all fell upon the luggage.  Straps were loosed. Huge expanses of
material were unrolled, shaking out all manner of equipment, including a
noisy miscellany of cooking utensils.

Harry and Sarah, roused by the noise, scrambled up to watch amazed as a camp
arose around them like a crop of mushroom sprouting in a meadow.

Everyone lent a willing hand with the business, except Kulaan (and the two
men set to watch him closely) who took no part.  The Doctor and Harry made
themselves useful with the heavy lifting.  Sarah, without the slightest
hesitation, joined the older women at the fires, setting up cook pots.

In moments, it seemed, a camp stood along the river bank in the lee of the
ruins.  Delicious smells of cooking were filling the gently moving air.  It
drew men and women from their completed tasks towards the fires, like moths
to a candle.  They were chattering and talking, the women's hair ornaments
jingling, as they began gathering round for a share in the food.

While he stood in line at one of the fires, there was a touching reunion
between the black mare and the Doctor's hat.  It raised a smile on Sarah's
weary face.

Later, the formal Deputation of Challenge arrived.  Rasaken, who had arrivd
with Clonhilden's party, spoke for Grimlak, as no other seemed minded to do
so.  The Khan himself spoke for Kulaan.  Shiv stood to one side, looking on,
her expression of impotent resignation masked by shadows.  She could have no
direct part to play in this business.  She was bound by the oaths her kind
had sworn in the long ago, not to interfere in the politics of the Sons and
Daughters of Terra.  This oath had been judged necessary by the Shivan when
the colonists had realised the full power of the Shivan, and grown deeply
afraid.

A Conclave of Challenge was a set proceedings with formal protocols to be
observed and formulae to be gone through under the green V banner of the
Goddess.  After half an hour of talking, it broke up.  Kulak Kharran Khan's
face was set hard and grim.

He went to Kulaan and spoke briefly with him.  The boy shook his head in
angry denial.  The Khan threw up his hands in exasperation, spun about, and
stalked off.  He went over to the nearest horse, un-hobbled it and mounted
bare back.  Catching up the lead rope, he urged the beast into a trot,
steering it into the shadowed ruins hemming in the camp.

Clonhilden, her lips pursed in thought, glanced at Kulaan, before moving to
another beast.  Expertly, she un-hobbled it.   Hoisting full skirts, she
mounted bare back.  The Doctor, watching the goings on with a thoughtful
expression, felt a hand on his arm.

"It's a fine night for a ride on the Kulak," Nylan observed, his voice full
of an unspoken appeal.  "Will you join me, Doctor?"

The Doctor nodded, not taking his eyes from the two figures moving into the
benighted trees beyond the fires.  "Yes," he said quietly, and moved towards
his 'Little Accident'.

Shiv looked on from the darkness, her unquiet gaze flicking about the camp,
ruing the unalterable fact that there was nothing she might openly concern
herself with in these matters.  However, she knew more than one way of
shearing a sheep.  With a glance at the boy and his two guards, Shiv moved
away into the shadows, heading for the Travelling Camp of Grimlak Vylian
Khan.

Before she had faded into the dark beyond the firelight, Sarah, her
journalist's nose twitching, rose from one of the fires.  Something, she
felt, was a-foot; and this time she was not going to be left behind.  She set
off in the direction Shiv had taken.

It was just the chance that Harry had been waiting for.  He rose, excusing
himself profusely to the bevy of young women vying for his attention, and
feigning regret, set out to follow Sarah.  After all, the Doctor had
specifically told him to: "Keep an eye on Sarah, Harry .  There's a good
chap."

He hurried to keep Sarah in sight, breathing a sigh of relief as the voices
of his admirers faded back into the general background hubbub of the camp.

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Demereen sat hunched in misery on the broken stub of stone pillar in the
dim-lit cellar. Even through the padding of animal hides, the sharp angles
cut into her backside, made tender by the wild ride.  The top of the pillar
was on a slight slope, which the padding had not entirely levelled off.  She
was acutely uncomfortable. Trying to ease the discomfort, she shifted
gingerly while glaring with a sullen anger across the cellar at the Betrothal
Chaperones.

The three female cousins of Grimlak were clustered around a table.  The only
light in the room was radiating from a fat bellied lamp, slung from a
projecting end of metal, over their heads.  On the table between them was one
of the board games that were much played on the Kulak.  It was said that this
particular one went right back to the time before settlement, in the near
mythical long ago, back even to the dimly remembered home world of Old Earth
- Terra herself.  Demereen shoved the unbidden thoughts of the long ago from
her mind, and studied the three women leaning over the board.

They were all middle aged.  For the most part, they seemed the usual kindly
and capable women who thrived on the Kulak.  Indigo chevrons decorated their
arms in serried ranks.  At first, they had salved her split lips and spoken
words of encouragement to her.  Then they had tried to coax her to eat some
food.  Demereen would have none of it.  They made a show of setting up the
board for the game, trying to involve her in the play by asking her opinion
of this move or that.  Demereen just ignored them, and squatted in a sullen
silence, shutting them out with a cold anger.  Eventually, they had given up
and retreated to the far side of the cellar to play their game, ignoring her
with deliberate intent.  If she wanted to sulk like a baby about the pasture
the Goddess had gifted her to graze in, that was her choice; they would spare
no sympathy for such churlishness.  They were all, Demereen included, women
of the Kulak.  They lived the life the Goddess gave them, and there was an
end on the matter.  It was not deliberate unkindness; for according to Kulak
Law and Custom, they were treating her in a fit manner.

The eldest among them, Olgen, had taken the trouble to soak some rags in a
salve and tuck them into the manacles fastened about her ankles, to ease the
rubbing of the raw iron on her skin.  For that Demereen had been grateful.

Grimlak had called his blacksmith as soon as the party had arrived in the
camp, to have the man hammer the iron rings closed about Demereen's ankles,
and to fix a heavy chain.  This had been passed through a rusted ring in a
huge stone block, nearby to the pillar on which she sat.

Demereen moved her legs, dragging the chains over the debris strewn floor
with a dull clinking.  At the table, Olgen looked up from the game, glancing
across the gloom in her direction.  Their eyes met, and held a long moment,
before Olgen looked down again.  Demereen fancied she saw shame and
embarrassment in that black regard; but even if the Vylian woman did feel
shame at this travesty of a Bride Quest, she would do nothing to help.

Demereen sighed, and tried to settle herself more comfortably on the seat.
It was going to be a long, sleepless night.  She began to toy with a small
lump of stone between her bare feet, turning it over andover with her toes.

One of the women at the table gave a little cry of triumph, and made a move
with the pieces on the board.  Demereen looked up at the distraction.  As she
watched the three women, they stiffened into awkward poses, stalled in the
act of living.  At that very same instant, Demereen grew aware of a certain,
indefinable "something" cloaking the air.

Suddenly, the three Betrothal Chaperones jerked into life.  Slowly, they
rose.  As they did so, the skinning knife of Olgen caught in the carving on
the back of her chair.  It was dragged free from the sheath, and fell to the
floor with a clink, ringing loud in the sudden silence.  No one but Demereen
seemed to have noticed.

In a trance, the three women began to file towards the steps, employing a
curious shambling gait.  As they passed, Olgen looked across at Demereen.
There was a look of profound puzzlement on Olgen's round, homely face.  She
hesitated a long moment, seeming about to speak, but instead resumed her
shamble in the wake of her departing cousins.  The three women reached the
steps leading up into the night.

Demereen listened to the retreating footsteps, and the muted rush of woolen
skirts.  Quiet descended in the small cellar.  She strained her ears, trying
to catch the sounds of the camp drifting on Mother's Breath.  Nearby, a dog
barked.  There came a gruff inquiry of the three women, which went
unanswered.  From further off, the chatter of a couple of women grew,
interspersed with the clink and clatter of some cooking pots, as they
approached the area of Demereen's confinement.  They called out a greeting;
but this too went unanswered.  The exchange of indignant comments this
provoked came only faintly to Demereen, so that she could not make out the
words.  The women passed on; and the comfortably familiar sound of women
about camp chores died away.  More distant yet, the mournful hooting of a
night hunting bird floated in from the prairie.

Satisfied that her Chaperones had truly abandoned their duty, Demereen
reached for the knife, watching the entrance and muffling the clink of her
manacles by moving her legs slowly.  With a muted cry of triumph, her fingers
closed on the handle of the heavy bladed skinning knife.  She lifted it
before her face, and peered at the blade in the lambent lamp-light.  This was
a keen-edged workman's tool, not some pretty silvered toy of a rich man;
there was no reflection to be seen in the grey steel.  So much the better.
The keen edge would answer more certainly any need she might have of it.

Reversing the knife, she sliced away Grimlak's hateful Quest Thongs, and
ripped them off so fiercely, the manacles clanked.  The noise sounded
fearfully loud in the quiet.  No one poked a head in to see what was up.
Nevertheless, Demereen did not dare move from her corner for a long time,
cursing her foolishness in allowing herself to get so angry.  It would be
utter foolishness to waste this Gift of the Goddess.  At length, she relaxed,
letting out her breath in a sigh.

Reaching down, she lifted her skirts and measured out a length of the cotton
underskirt.  Carefully, she used the knife to slice off the piece of soft
material.  She smoothed her skirts back into place and wrapped the keen blade
in the strip of cotton.  Un-lacing her shirt, she slid the blade down between
her breasts, where Kulaan's totem had once nestled.  Considering on how right
this was, brought a fond smile to her lips.

In an unregarded corner, the architect of Demereen's good luck smiled.  The
expression was one of half satisfaction, half chagrin.

"Shiv?" Demereen whispered.  "I know you're here?"

Peering about, Demereen caught, in the corner of her eye, the tell-tale
rippling of the dark that betrayed a Shivan casting off the Glamour.  Relief
flooded Demereen; Sudden hope surging in her heart.  Now that Shiv was here
things would be alright.  A little stab of guilt and shame accompanied the
surge of hope at just how much the fear of being abandoned had grown up in
the little Mother's absence.

Demereen drew up her skirt hem, lifting her legs to display her
ankles. The links jingled; but she didn't care about that now.  "That dog had
them riveted on," she explained.  "Did you bring something to get them off?"

Shiv looked unhappy.  She avoided looking directly at Demereen.
"Demereen...Demereen, I can't help with this.  You know I cannot interfere
like that." The little mother sounded utterly wretched.

Demereen lifted her head half incredulous, half in panic.  "What!  What do
you mean?"

The Shivan Witch looked even more uncomfortable.  She folded her hands into
her robes.  For the first time since Demereen had known the Shivan, she
refused point blank to meet her gaze.  At last Shiv spoke, her voice full of
sincere regret.  "You know that I must do nothing.  Not now."

"Why not?" demanded Demereen, more fiercely than she meant, to cover her
acute disappointment.   "You helped me before."

"Then it was still an arranged Quest, approved by your father, a harmless
game, all part of the rich tradition of the Kulak.  Now it is a hostile Quest
in anger, a real Bride Quest as of old, a serious matter.  It has gone beyond
the bounds of a fine lark at the summer festival.  It is now a
matter of politics with the death of thousands hanging on the
outcome. Demereen, the Oath forbids.  I simply cannot interfere in this
quite so directly."

Demereen sighed, admitting the fact to herself. She dropped her gaze to the
floor, nodding sadly.  "Forgive me, Shiv.  It was wrong of me to expect -"

"There is nothing to forgive, daughter," Shiv interrupted her.  "I must go.
If I may not meddle further in the destiny of Demereen, daughter of Kulak
Kharran, there are other matters pressing for my attention in which I might
usefully interfere this night." She leaned in close and hugged Demereen in a
tight embrace.  Kissing her fondly on the cheek, she released the girl she
considered a favourite among her thousands of foster daughters.  She turned
her dark gaze into a corner of the cellar.  There, in the shadows, a tiny
Grass Mouse sat back on its haunches and peered intently at the two women.
Shiv grinned, and curtsied to the tiny creature.  Then she spun in a whirl of
grey robes and shimmered into the glamour.

Outside, Shiv walked, unseen, through the camp; and paused to consider the
progress of her meddling so far.  Things had not gone according to plan at
all.  The problem of the chains, had been quite unforeseen and was insoluble
without breaking the Oath.  Already she had stressed the dictates of that
ancient pledge to the point of snapping. Still, it had not all been in vain.
Demereen's Bridal Chaperones had been set off.  A knife ad been provided; and
the hateful Bride Thongs were severed.  Demereen would just have to take her
chances with the chains, that was beyond her power to change; but Demereen
was a resourceful girl, she would find a way to get free of her bonds and,
with luck and the hand of the Goddess, help to prevent the impending
massacre.

Satisfied that all that could be done here, had been done, she bent her steps
towards the horse corral.  Bryllaan would be there.  He was a good boy, and
would be seeing to the animals before his own needs.  As she moved unseen
through the camp, she comforted herself with the determination not to
allow any more of her plans to be thwarted by circumstance this night.



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