Chapter 2
For a moment he stood just inside the entrance, gazing upwards and around, one hand resting easily on the hilt of his sword. The Doctor nodded at Arwen, followed Aragorn in, and closed the door, waiting.
"I thought," said Aragorn after a short while, "that little would astonish me any more. I have seen wizards and Ents and Elves; hobbits defeating the greatest evil and the Dead walking. This, Doctor, is as incredible as all of that. That such a space exists inside four small walls ..."
The Doctor threw off his coat and moved past to the console. "Like I said last time, it's just technology you don't have." He began to input the coordinates, unable to keep back the grin. "What am I saying? Yeah, she's brilliant. Now, hang on to something." The TARDIS shuddered into motion. "Just a short hop!" he said, "nice and simple."
They came to a halt. Aragorn let go of the strut he had been holding and adjusted his sword-belt. "Where are we?" he asked.
Pulling the console screen towards him, the Doctor double-checked. A perfect landing.
"Side-street in the capital," he said. "Right then."
"Do you have a plan?" asked Aragorn, as the Doctor put on his coat.
"Have a wander around. If there's something odd going on, it'll probably make itself known."
Aragorn looked sceptical, but said nothing, and followed the Doctor out of the TARDIS door.
They were indeed parked in a side-street. It was hot, an oven-like dry heat that parched the throat; and instantly dusty. The Doctor sniffed the air, and found it odd.
"D'you know your way around?" he asked Aragorn.
"It has been some time since I was here and able to move where I would," Aragorn said. "Last time I came I was given all the courtesy in the world, but shepherded around and hustled from one meeting to the next. But I shall do my best. We should aim for the market; it is where everyone will be."
"Market it is, then," the Doctor said.
He let Aragorn take the lead through the streets, which were busy but not overcrowded. The buildings were made of some form of stone, windows shuttered against the sun, and the people wore loose clothing akin to cotton. It could have been any of a hundred similar desert worlds, but there was something in the air that made the hairs on the back of the Doctor's neck bristle. Whatever the illness was, it had the Haradrim on edge.
His sense of wrongness merely increased when they reached the market. Quite apart from the number of people with scarves wrapped over their faces, the atmosphere was thick with tension. He glanced sideways at Aragorn. "Feel it?"
"I feel something," the king said.
"This isn't a normal illness," the Doctor said. "It's so far from normal ..."
They wove their way through the crowds. The Doctor noticed that despite the fact Aragorn was dressed differently from the locals, he managed to blend in in a way he almost envied.
"So," he said in a low voice, as they waited for a cart loaded with bundles of wood to go past, "when were you here before?"
Aragorn shrugged. "Must be eighty years. More, maybe. I was travelling the South, for a while. I served Thengel in Rohan for a few years, and then came to Gondor. After some time Ecthelion, the Steward, began to suspect who I was, I think; I left his service and continued south. I felt it was important to learn about other lands. To travel. It taught me much about myself also." The cart gone, they continued through the streets. "I left the North as a boy, but I returned as a man."
"Travel will do that to you," agreed the Doctor.
Turning into a new street, one full of stalls selling earthenware, they became aware of a commotion ahead of them. There was wailing and a crowd had gathered around a fallen figure on the ground; someone was crying for a healer.
The Doctor and Aragorn exchanged looks, and together hurried forward, only to find their way barred by an old man in long maroon robes.
"We need no white men here," he said. "Go back to the North."
"We might be able to help," the Doctor returned. "My friend and I know something of medicine. What's wrong?"
"It's the sickness," cut in a different voice. "It is taking all of us, one by one."
The old man stood back, and as if this was a signal the crowd parted. The figure on the ground was that of a young woman; her skin covered in a deep rash and her brow beaded with sweat. Aragorn was instantly on his knees by her side, feeling her skin and frowning.
"She needs to be inside, somewhere cool," he said.
There was no rush to help, so the Doctor picked up the girl's feet and Aragorn took her shoulders, and they carried her into a nearby shop that appeared to belong to the second speaker. A space was cleared on a couch and they laid the girl down. She was muttering to herself, her voice almost inaudible.
"I need some warm water and cloths," said Aragorn, rolling his sleeves up.
"But what can a Northerner do?" asked the shop owner. "I beg your pardon, sir, but all our healers have failed to cure this sickness. Many have died. I fear she will be just another."
"I know some things your healers perhaps do not," said Aragorn gently. "Let me try. If she is to die anyway, then my efforts cannot hurt, surely?" He rose, putting his hands together. "I am Halboron, from the far North."
"Sajid," said the shopowner, bowing in a similar fashion. "This is Mina. We ..."
"Fetch the water," Aragorn said.
Sajid disappeared, leaving them alone with Mina.
The Doctor fished out his sonic screwdriver from his coat pocket and turned it on. "Good. Now the formalities are over, we can see what's really wrong with her."
"The formalities are necessary," said Aragorn. "They are a proud race; protocol matters."
"Which is why I brought you, to deal with the protocol," the Doctor said, scanning. "Never been much of a diplomat, myself. Oh, now that's interesting." He examined the readings. "She's not alone in there." He bent down close to Mina's face and listened. "And that's not Haradric she's speaking."
Aragorn bent to listen. "She's speaking Westron. In fact ..."
"Remember Ronald and his languages thing?" the Doctor said. "I'm afraid the TARDIS is translating for you. We're speaking your Westron. They're speaking Haradric, and we're speaking Haradric to them. She's not speaking either of them, nor is she speaking any other tongue from Arda. This is something else."
"How can you tell?" asked Aragorn, doubtfully.
The Doctor winked. "I speak everything."
"Then what is she saying?"
"Strings of words, that's all," said the Doctor. "No especial pattern, and the language is common to a hundred species across a spread of time and space. The point is, she iis/i infected, but not by a virus. She's infected by something sentient, something conscious. Possessed, I suppose you'd say."
"Then we ... can you drive it out?" Aragorn questioned.
"I don't know," the Doctor said, as Sajid came back in with a bowl of water. "It's worth doing your thing, though; at the least it'll soothe her a bit." He stepped back and watched as Aragorn pulled out a handful of leaves and herbs from his pack and steeped them in the bowl, before soaking a cloth and wiping it over Mina's sweat-beaded brow.
Sajid, twisting his hands together, seemed anxious. "Will you be able to cure her?"
"We'll do our best," said the Doctor. "Sajid, when did this start? How did it start?"
"For Mina?"
"No, for the first person who got ill."
The story Sajid told was much like that related by Aragorn. A sandstorm had rolled in from the desert, coating the city in dust. When the storm had settled, people began falling ill. The young were more affected than the old, and more women had been infected than men. The fever took the victims first, with some developing a rash, dehydration and vomiting later. Eventually, weakened, they died.
The Doctor listened, his brain working to connect the disparate dots and solve the mystery. Possession by sand – it was a new one, and unusual, but certainly not incurable.
"Is there any one place with more cases?" he asked. "A hospital?"
"Many of the victims have been taken to the hospice, yes," said Sajid.
"Good. Right. Can you show us the way?"
Sajid gestured helplessly at Mina. "But ..."
"I'm looking for patterns in the sickness," the Doctor explained, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Might find them, in the hospice. If I can find a pattern, I can help her."
Aragorn straightened from bending over his patient. "She'll rest easier, for the moment. Take us to the hospice."
The hospice was cool and quiet, but the air was rank with the stench of sweat and sickness. They passed a room filled with bodies wrapped in shrouds, and came into a larger room where patients lay on mats. Aragorn and the Doctor exchanged looks, and split up. While Aragorn went around taking temperatures and checking pulses, the Doctor tried to make sense of the patients' ramblings and talked to those who were sitting nearby, tending to friends and relatives.
Eventually they left the sick, and sat together in a shady courtyard. "Well?" asked the Doctor.
Aragorn rolled his sleeves down and wiped a hand across his brow. "I fear they're beyond my aid, and truthfully there have been few people I have not been able to help in some way. I had a skilled teacher, and I would that he were here now to advise me."
"You'll have to make do with me and with your own wisdom," the Doctor said. "But it's like I thought; there's a sentient ... something in this dust. I'm worried that it's lying dormant in the dead, ready to break out. How long does it take these people to bury their dead?"
"Not long," said Aragorn. "It's the heat; the bodies decay quickly."
"I don't suppose they cremate them?" asked the Doctor, hopefully.
"No."
"Oh well. We'll have to deal with that as it happens." He sounded sanguine about it. "Right. I need a sample of that sand, and I'll take it back to the TARDIS and try to work out where it came from. If I get a planet of origin, I might get a solution."
Aragorn nodded. "I will stay here and do what little I can."
The sample was easily obtained – there seemed to be sand everywhere – and after a couple of wrong turns the Doctor managed to find his way back to the TARDIS. He shrugged off his coat, brushed dust from his hair, and set to work.
An hour later, linear time, and after some chemical analysis and a foray to the library, he had his answer. At least it was some way towards an answer; he now knew where the invasion was coming from, and at least seven possible ways of stopping it, but choosing the right way rather depended on the reason for the invasion.
Back at the hospice Aragorn was moving from patient to patient. He appeared to have won the trust of the Haradric doctors and was working quietly with them, but as the Doctor appeared he excused himself and came over.
"I have almost exhausted my supplies of athelas and I fear nothing is really helping," he said, without preamble. "Well?"
"As I suspected it's an invasion," said the Doctor. "I need to go and talk to the invaders, at the source, if we can find it."
"iTalk/i to them?" Aragorn asked. "If it is an invasion, will talking be the solution?"
The Doctor gave him a look. "I thought you were the reluctant warrior, rather giving and taking counsel than waving a sword in someone's face."
"I would rather do that, indeed, but I have found it seldom works," Aragorn said.
"It works when it's me doing the talking," said the Doctor. "No swords. No bows and arrows. Got that?"
For a moment Aragorn looked as though he was going to argue, but then he relaxed, shrugged his shoulders and nodded. "Agreed. My apologies, Doctor; few save my Undómiel speak thus to me now."
"Burden of power," said the Doctor. "Righty-ho, then, back to the TARDIS and let's get to the source."
They left the quiet peace of the hospital and went back into the busy town. As they walked Aragorn pointed out buildings and people of note and the Doctor drank in the sights and smells.
The TARDIS was just around the corner when Aragorn paused, touching the Doctor's elbow. "Guards," he hissed, under his breath.
"Guards from where?" asked the Doctor, noting the well-worn grips of the curved swords carried by the three men in front of them.
"The Caliph's palace," said Aragorn, his hand close to the hilt of his own sword. "I cannot risk a commotion, Doctor; we may have conquered Harad but the relationship between us still stands on a knife-edge."
The Doctor glanced at him. "So don't use a knife," he suggested. "Let me do the talking. I'm good at talking. Maybe they won't notice you." Aragorn gave him a silent, eloquent look, and the Doctor shrugged. "You never know," he said.
In the end the Doctor's talking was no use, and within an hour he and Aragorn found themselves locked in a comfortable room in the palace, awaiting the Caliph's pleasure. The Doctor was perched on the edge of a table, while Aragorn paced.
"This is a disaster," he said, pausing in the pacing.
"It could be better," agreed the Doctor.
"They have my sword!" said Aragorn. "That is as much a giveaway of who I am as anything else. And I cannot leave without it."
The Doctor felt in a pocket, and pulled out his sonic screwdriver, twirling it thoughtfully. "Why not?"
Aragorn took three swift strides over to him, and snatched the screwdriver. "What is this to you, Doctor?"
"Hey!" The Doctor got to his feet. "It's a tool. A very useful tool. It's got me out of rather a lot of scrapes. And it's handy when there's a screw loose in the TARDIS." He put his hands in his pockets. "And it's not a weapon."
"Isn't it?" Aragorn threw the screwdriver back. "Sometimes a weapon is more of a symbol than something of destruction, Doctor. Andúril is such a thing. It long held the hope and the memory of my line – it reminded us of what we had lost, even when we were little more than wanderers in the wilderness. Reforged, it brought that hope to the South and fear to the hearts of our enemies."
"The sword, or the hand that wields it?" said the Doctor.
Resuming his pacing, Aragorn shrugged. "I know not. All I know is that this has turned into a fool's errand, and if it brings strife between our nations I will hold you responsible, Doctor."
The Doctor shrugged. "I've been responsible for worse, Aragorn. Much worse." He eyed the King closely. "I'm sorry if this causes you any difficulty. How about we focus on trying to deal with this infection – the Haradrim will surely not mind you being here if you save them from a plague?"
"It would probably help," Aragorn acknowledged.
They waited, quieter now, for some time. The Doctor tried sonicking the door, but it was stubbornly wooden and appeared to be simply barred from the other side rather than locked. After a while Aragorn fished out a long-stemmed pipe from inside his leather jacket and pressed some leaf into it. A search for tinder proved less successful until the Doctor found some matches deep inside one of his own pockets, and the room filled slowly with fragrant smoke.
After several hours the door was unbarred. Aragorn swiftly tapped out the pipe and stowed it away, standing ready for action. The Doctor stood too, hands in pockets again.
Behind the door were two guards and an older man in the robes of a courtier. He bowed; Aragorn returned the salute.
"I am sorry to keep you so long," the elderly man said. "There has been some ... difficulties. We had hoped to bring you to the Caliph, as he has ordered his guards to detain all Northerners seen in the City."
"Why's that?" the Doctor asked. "Aren't you at peace now?"
"It is our law," the Haradrim returned, gravely. "However I regret to say the Caliph is indisposed."
Aragorn's eyes narrowed. "Do you mean he is ill, sir?"
For a second the old man hesitated. "Yes."
"We can help," the Doctor said. "I think I can make this sickness go away."
The Haradrim looked at him, open wonder on his lined face. "Are you then a wizard, sir? We mistrust wizards in this country. We were lied to for too long, by wizards and their kind."
"You were lied to by Sauron the Deceiver," Aragorn said. "And he is defeated." There was a stern look in his gaze. "We will not lie, sir. We will try to help you."
"Very well," said the old man. "But first, tell me what brings you to Harad? We see few Northerners, save those trading goods from Gondor. And few, if I may say so, with such ... strange clothing."
The Doctor looked down at himself. "These old things? Very practical for travelling. Lots of pockets."
Aragorn cut in. "We are merely travellers, sir, with a fancy to see the world. I am a Ranger of the far North; Halboron son of Sador. We are sorry to cause you any difficulties, but will attempt to atone by assisting with this sickness."
Sighing, the Haradrim nodded. "Very well. If you can cure our Caliph, our thanks will indeed be great." He led the way out of the room and into a small antechamber, where he handed Aragorn back his sword and dagger. "A fine weapon, son of Sador."
Aragorn buckled the sword-belt around his waist and touched the hilt as though to reassure himself that it was there. "Indeed. An heirloom of my house, and I am grateful for its return."
"Do you need assistance?" asked the Haradrim.
"No, we'll be fine," the Doctor reassured him. "So will your Caliph, never you worry! Off we go, Halboron." He gave Aragorn a wink.
Neither of them said anything more until they reached the TARDIS, standing untouched and silent in its alleyway. Once inside the Doctor swung into action, firing up the engine and inputting coordinates. Aragorn leaned against the railing and watched.
"So are you planning to tell me what you aim to do when we arrive at wherever it is we are going?" he asked.
"Oh, play it by ear, as ever," the Doctor said, flinging a lever and looking up at the central column.
"That is not much of a plan," Aragorn noted.
"Plans," said the Doctor, pausing in his antics around the console and looking at Aragorn, "are generally overrated, I feel. It's all very well planning what you are going to do, but it doesn't take into account what the other person might do." The TARDIS shuddered, and he put on the handbrake. "Besides, it's more fun this way."
"You are playing with people's lives," returned Aragorn. His tone was cool. "Not only your own – and I can well see how that might be tempting, as you are granted this boon of returning after death – but also the people of Harad."
"And yours," the Doctor added.
"My life has been in danger many a time," Aragorn said, "and I do not fear death. But these people are innocents."
The Doctor crossed to the strut where he had left his coat, picked it up and shrugged it on. "Very few people are ever truly innocent," he said, darkly. "I'm not forcing you to come. But we do this my way or not at all."
For a moment, Aragorn looked as though he would resist. Then he nodded, sharply. "Your way, then, Doctor."
They opened the TARDIS door to a scene of bleak isolation. Sand dunes stretched as far as the eye could see, golden in the setting sun but devoid of all life. The wind whipped the sand up into their faces, and the Doctor pulled out two large handkerchiefs from his pocket and passed one to Aragorn. "Wrap this around your face," he suggested, following his own proposal and covering his mouth and nose.
Aragorn did so, before drawing his sword with a rasp of steel and turning it in his hand. "What are we looking for?" he asked, through the handkerchief.
"A ship," said the Doctor. "Not a sailing ship, and not a ship like my TARDIS either. A crashed ship, I think, with something inside that can't get home."
"And so wants to make Arda its own?" Aragorn finished.
"If you can't get home, generally you try to find a new one," said the Doctor. He took out the sonic screwdriver and buzzed it towards the sand. He started walking, and Aragorn followed.
