Master of the Ring

Chapter Five: Theirs' not to make reply

The Black Ships, as they were called, were officially designated Hades- class Long Range Scouts. Another new class that had come into service of recent years, they had been requested, and designed according to the requirements of, Admiral Rikers' Ranger Branch. They were one-man ships, fully warp-capable, able to operate in almost any planetary environment. Equipped with top-level replicator and recycling technology they could, if necessary, support the pilot for a year without resupply. They were armed only with a single phase cannon, but were heavily-shielded, highly-manoeuvrable, and had cloaking devices. The distinctive black hulls that gave them their nickname were due to a special coating designed to confuse or block targeting sensors. They were also equipped with a positronic Artificial Intelligence patterned on that of Commodore Lore, but less sophisticated. It was this AI that greeted Sarek as he boarded the ship.

"Welcome aboard, Commander. I am Erebus. All systems are at full function and I am ready to depart on your order."

"Thank you, Erebus. Is that your name or the name of the ship?" Sarek asked.

"Both." Erebus replied. "To all intents and purposes, I am the ship, just as your brain and body are both Commander Potter."

"That makes sense." Sarek acknowledged. "Will my being a wizard affect your functioning in any way?"

"Negative." Erebus told him. "All Black Ships are built according to the Weasley-Stark Protocols, to be equally accessible to both magic-users and non-users.

"Do you wish to launch immediately?"

"Yes, please." Sarek said, settling into the command chair. "Take me to Deep Space Nine, warp five."

"At warp five, our ETA will be approximately three days, two hours, seven minutes and forty-five seconds." Erebus pointed out.

"Good." Sarek replied. "I've got some research to do and some sleep to catch up on!"

The research was, to say the least, enlightening. Sarek, like most people, had assumed the Rangers to be an elite corps of scouts, intelligence gatherers and occasional troubleshooters, operating near the edges of Federation Space. However, it seemed there was a larger, overall, agenda as laid out in Admiral Rikers' introduction to the Ranger Manual:

Governing the human race, Riker had written, has always been like herding cats. We are a self-willed and independent-minded bunch. This is a strength in that it has allowed us to thrive as generalists in a Galaxy in which many races have chosen or been forced to emphasise specific traits. But it is also a key weakness. Every human colony has at least a few citizens who constantly urge a greater degree of independence and self-determination from the Federation, while some demand a complete break, not only from the Federation, but from the United Earth Alliance.

The response from the Federation has always been to stress the autonomy and sovereignty of member worlds, and their right to withdraw. The UEA also allows member worlds a high level of autonomy, enforcing only a few basic laws (such as the prohibition of slavery) and requiring only a common foreign and defence policy.

However, there are internal and external factions who can and do actively encourage separatist movements with a view to weakening both the UEA and ultimately the Federation. The Rangers exist in large part to watch for and if possible counter any and all such threats to human unity, without compromising our ideals of freedom and autonomy.

"So no pressure then!" Sarek murmured to himself. He then went on to peruse what the writers of the manual called a 'partial list' of factions and organisations that threatened human unity. Some were obvious – Humanity First, The Free Worlds Movement, the Maquis. Others he was familiar with through family history: Scourers, Death Eaters, HYDRA and AIM. Some he had never heard of: who were the Bene Gesserit? Then there were the external threats: the Romulan Insurgents, the Orion Syndicate, the Obsidian Blade and so on. It seemed there was some homework to do!

XXXXX

Number Ten of the Council was rarely present at meetings. Her presence was disturbing to the other members, for one thing. For another, her role did not involve much in the way of consultation, planning or co-operation. She did as her Master commanded, and what the others might do did not concern her, except occasionally.

"Why did you send them?" She asked.

"Two reasons." The Master replied. "Firstly, you have other matters in hand. The building up of bases, gathering of resources and assimilation and upgrading of recruits is all-important. Despite his wealth and connections, the Ferengi cannot provide all the material we need, and the Orion slavers can't provide all the organic subjects we require.

"Secondly, misdirection. The Klingons will now be looking for Romulans, and will require substantive evidence from the Federation before changing their minds."

"The Romulans will not take their defeat lightly." She warned.

"But nor will they hold me accountable." He told her. "They will blame the Klingons and themselves. I have already received an apology from Cicaro, and a promise to redouble efforts. 'Theirs not to make reply. Theirs not to reason why. Theirs but to do and die.' As the poet has it. Strange how a human so long ago managed to sum up the character and philosophy of a race his species had never encountered!"

"That is why humans are so dangerous." She declared. "They understand so much by instinct that they adapt faster than any other race."

Her voice had changed, coming directly from her, rather than the air itself, and becoming less entirely mechanical. He turned to see that she had lifted her head and was looking at him. Cables and umbilicals disconnected themselves and retracted into the massive, thronelike Command Chair. She rose to her two-metre height and strode toward him. Cyber armour in the black metal of the Borg. The face of a humanoid woman, one that might have been lovely but for the greyish-white skin and the unblinking expanses of fathomless blackness where her eyes should have been. Most of the cranium replaced by a transparent shell, beneath which pulsed the pinkish brain, overlaid with the silver threads of cyber-enhancements. Over all, the headphone-like structure of the suppressors that eliminated both emotion and pain.

Long ago, or far in the future, in a timestream that no longer existed, the Cyberium, the governing AI of the Cyber-race, had fled from the Master and Gallifrey seconds ahead of the release of the Death Particle. When the Infinity Gauntlet was used, the Cyberium was flung into the Delta Quadrant, where it became entangled in the dying remnants of the Borg Collective. The Cyberium, containing as it did all knowledge of the Cyber-race past and future, was able to counteract the neurolytic pathogen that was destroying the Collective. The exchange of data caused a fusion of the two entities. Cyberium and Collective were locked together, but not unified, and each still attempted to dominate the other, one to recreate the Borg as they had been, the other to rebuild the Cybermen of times past.

Then The Master came. The Master who had once possessed the Cyberium and was still linked to it. The Master who, through his own Ring device and the lesser one he now gifted to the Queen Controller, the monstrous blend of Borg Queen and Cyber-Controller created by the fusion, had accomplished the unification. The CyBorg were born, determined to remake the Universe in their own image, at the command of their Master.

"Show us." She said.

The Master keyed the display.

"From here," he said, "we are spreading our domination into this sector. It has many inhabited worlds, but most of them are primitive, and the Federation does no more than the occasional fly-by. Their Prime Directive forbids them to do more. The Klingon Empire has no such Directive, of course, but the Khitomer Accords and the Alliance Treaty both require them to abide by it. This the Klingons agreed to because their previous expansionism had overstretched both their military and economic capacity, leaving them vulnerable.

"StarFleet remains the largest, most advanced and most powerful fleet in this quadrant. But the Klingon Imperial Fleet is a close second. By using the Romulans to harry the Klingons, we reduce the forces arrayed against us and distract the most aggressive of our enemies – the one likeliest to attack us before we gain enough strength to defend ourselves.

"This allows us to take our time, secure our territory and supply-lines, and build our forces. In the meantime we can begin to exploit tensions within the Federation, especially the UEA, to divide and weaken them. The human species is the heart of the Federation, but also its weakness. All the other races are unified, but there is no single idea or concept that unifies humanity. The only thing they all revere is freedom, a shared belief which pushes them apart rather than draws them together. We will take advantage of that!"

"Which leaves us only one danger." The Queen Controller said. "Our old nemesis, The Doctor."

The Master laughed. "The Doctor? He's already on our side! I really doubt that my old friend can defeat himself, or indeed herself!"

XXXXX

Even Conan of Cimmeria can be caught off-guard. A successful raid, a cup of wine too many, a pair of ripe and willing lips, all adding up to a moment of distraction, a blow on the head, and now this. He was bound to a heavy chair in a stinking cellar in Zingara, prisoner of the very men he had led in the raid on the manor of a foppish princeling the night before.

The chair, he noted, was bolted to the floor, and was too massive for even him to shatter. Had he been chained, he would have broken free – rigid metal will bend or break under enough strength. But he was bound with ropes. Not ordinary ones, but well-made silken ones, which even he could neither stretch nor snap.

"Comfortable, Cimmerian?" Trago asked. "We arranged everything just for you, after all!"

Trago was almost as large as Conan, but older, his close-cropped hair greying, his face lined where it was not scarred, for he had seen many fights. One eye was cloudy-white, the other dark and fierce.

"This was your plan all along?" Conan asked.

Trago nodded. "Of course!" He tapped his forehead. "See, Cimmerian, I'm a thinking man, me. Prince Kerim is a popinjay with no spine, but he isn't quite a fool. Clever enough to hire people who knew what they were about when he built his manor. Wise enough to recruit skilled and loyal guards. Now my lads and I are good, no denying it, but we needed something extra to take that place, something a bit special. We needed Conan."

"So you hired me, and we succeeded." Conan replied. "I take my share and go, as agreed. Why this?"

"Why this, he asks?" Trago chuckled. "I told you, Cimmerian, I'm a thinking man! I find out about things before I do them. So I know all about Conan. I know all about how he joins a band or army, then starts working against their leader. Every band you join, you kill the boss and take over. I'm thinking I want to live to spend my loot and lead my lads."

"Those others were fools or madmen." Conan pointed out. "You don't strike me as either, Trago. I'd have taken my share and left. Now, I'm going to have to kill you."

It was a testament to Tragos' courage that he was able to meet the icy blue gaze of the Barbarian. "I believe you believe that." He said. "You're thinking that when I come close to slit your throat, you'll have a chance. You're Conan of Cimmeria, after all. A man who makes chances out of nothing. But I'm not going to kill you, Conan!" He pointed out the pile of loot on the floor. "The lads and I are going to share this out, then leave. I'm going to lock this cellar up tight and keep the key safe. Then in a years' time, after you die of thirst and the rats and beetles have stripped you to your bones, I'm going to come back, take what's left of you to the high hills, burn it and scatter the ashes to the winds. I'll say a prayer when I do, I'm a decent man."

Before Conan could frame a reply, another voice cut across them, out of the shadows beyond the torchlight. A rough, gravelly voice with a strange accent.

"Got it all figured out, don'tcha, bub? Shame it ain't gonna work out for ya!"

A dozen men whirled to face the voice. A dozen blades flashed out of their scabbards. A figure stepped into the light. Shorter than most men, but with a breadth of shoulder that rivalled Conans', he was clad in tight-fitting black leather that emphasised the heavy muscles of his arms and legs. His hair was also black, and thick, with great side-whiskers that framed a rugged fighter's face with fierce dark eyes, wearing a slight smile.

Conan was fascinated. He had not heard the man enter the room, nor had he made a sound as he moved into the light. A master of stealth himself, the Cimmerian was not easily evaded, but this one could not, he felt, be out-hunted by any man.

"What!" One of the thieves scoffed. "A dwarf? Who are you, little man? Prince Kerims' jester come to mock us to death?"

The newcomers' smile widened to a fierce grin. "Joke's on you, bub. I ain't no jester. Just death!"

He raised his hands, fists clenched, and three long, curved, metal claws sprang from the back of each hand. As the thieves stared, he shot forward in a blur of motion. A shower of blood, a death scream, and all Hell broke loose!

A figure appeared at Conans' side. A woman, tall, sturdy, black-skinned, strong-faced. A knife flashed, severing his bonds. "Go!" She told him.

Conan moved fast, stooping to the loot pile and grasping the hilt of a sword that lay among it. An item he had himself intended to claim as part of his share. Shaking it free of the sheath, he turned to the fray to find himself facing Trago.

"I underestimated you, Cimmerian!" The thief said. "Clever, very clever. But now I will have to slit your throat!"

It was one of the closest fights Conan had ever had. Trago was a skilled swordsman, with an unorthodox style and years of experience. Enough to offset Conans' youth and greater strength. But Conan had been wielding a blade since childhood. He had fought many warriors, with many styles, and learned from them all. Also, the blade he now wielded was a finer weapon than any he had encountered, seeming to become an extension of his will as much as his hand. It was a near thing, but Trago finally left one opening. An opening no other swordsman would have been able to exploit, but which Conan took.

As Trago slumped to the floor, Conan looked for his next foe, to find to his surprise that only he, the woman and the clawed warrior remained standing.

"You took your time!" The little man commented.

"You're wounded." Conan replied. Blood was running down the strangers' body from a wound in the chest. Not the heart, Conan noted, but certainly the lung.

The smaller man looked down. "Oh, right!" He said. "No problem!"

He pulled the slit in the leather wide, and as Conan watched, the wound stopped bleeding, closed up and became a scar which quickly faded to be lost in the thick black chest-hair.

"Are you a sorceror?" Conan asked.

"No, a Mutant." The other replied. "Names' Logan. You're Conan, right?"

"I am, and I owe you a debt, friend Logan. I know not what a Mutant might be, but I do know a warrior when I see one!" Conan replied. "What would you have of me?"

"Just that sword." Logan said. "I hate to ask, seein' as it suits you pretty well, but it don't belong to you and it's needed somewhere else."

Conan hefted the blade. "You ask much, Logan!" He declared. "I have seen and used many swords, but none were the equal of this one! As to its' not belonging to me, I stole, or helped steal, it! So to whom else might it belong now? Not to Prince Kerim, certainly! His weapons are poisoned cups and poisonous words!

"I would need, in short, a most compelling reason to part with it!"

It was the woman who replied. "Leaving aside the fact that Logan could take it from you – you're a fine warrior, Conan, but I assure you he's better – there are good reasons. Look more closely at the blade!"

One of reasons for Conans' success and survival was the fact that others often underestimated the keenness of his intelligence and the depth and breadth of his learning. He did as directed. The sword was of an unfamiliar pattern, great-hilted and so balanced that it could be wielded with either one hand or both. The blade was long and straight, with a keen edge and sharp point. Too long for a shortsword, too straight for a sabre or scimitar, but not so thick and heavy as a broadsword. The steel, he could see, was of exceptional quality.

Etched into the blade were images, the moon and sun, a tree and seven stars. There were also symbols which he recognised as runes of protection. On the tang, there were other runes, runes he had learned as a child in Cimmeria, and though the language was unfamiliar, he could guess their meaning -his father had marked every weapon he crafted in such a manner: Telchar made me.

"Now who is Telchar?" He asked.

"Telchar was a Dwarf." The woman said. "The greatest smithcrafter of his people, the Firebeard Dwarfs of Tumunzahar in the Blue Mountains."

"I thought the stories of Dwarfs and their craftsmanship to be mere fireside tales." Conan said.

The woman laughed. "Now look at the sheath." She suggested.

The sheath, Conan thought, might be of more value than the blade it was made for. The black leather was overlaid with an elaborate tracery made of gold and silver threads, studded with tiny gems. Images of flowers and leaves, and among them writing in a flowing script and an ancient language. Few in that Age could read such script, but Conan, in his youth, had suffered an injury in the mountains, one that might have ended him, had he not been found by an old hermit, who took him in, fed him, warmed him and healed him. Conan had spent a year with old Radagast, learning many things from the solitary loremaster. Now he read aloud.

"Anduril, Flame of the West, the sword of Aragorn Elessar. Forged from the shards of Narsil, the Sword of Elendil, to be wielded by the Heir of Isildur." He looked up at the woman. "Elessar was the name of a great and wise King in the legends of my people. They say he and his heirs ruled a mighty Empire until the Earth opened up and swallowed them."

"That's not quite how it happened." She said. "But it's not too far from the truth. That sword was the Kings' Sword of an ancient Kingdom of Men, founded by survivors of Numenor, what you call Atlantis. You yourself, Conan, are descended from those Kings. But the Kingdom perished in the Great Cataclysm, when almost all of humanity was wiped out, and the Sword was thought lost.

"Now we find it here, in the hands of another Heir of Isildur. But in the future, the future from which we came, yet another Heir of Isildur – one of your own descendants – needs that sword. The future of humanity is at stake here, Conan!"

"Who are you that I should believe this?" Conan demanded.

She shrugged. "I'm the Doctor. That's all I can tell you."

Conan stared at her for a moment, then slipped the sword back into its' sheath and hung it from his belt. Then he spoke to the Doctor. "I have met one before who called himself by that title. He saved my life and together we overcame a race of machine-men bent on enslaving all men. If you be a member of the same order, then your words are sooth. I ask but one surety: take me with you as far as your Time-Chariot, your TARDIS. Once I see it, I shall know, and you shall have the sword, my word on it!"

XXXXX

Harry was recovering from the slight breathlessness that always resulted from an encounter with River Song. That particular womans' ability to talk a blue streak while explaining nothing and sweeping everyone else along with her was something he never got used to! He'd barely got his bearings back when the sound of another TARDIS engine filled the room. This one, however, materialised in the form of a metal cylinder. Out of it stepped a stocky, sandy-haired man in a grey coverall.

"My Lord Major." Harry said. "Now what?"

"Hi, Harry." The Major replied. "I'm here to kill you, sort of!"

Harry blinked. "Care to run that by me again?" He requested.

The Major chuckled, then held up a phial. In it a blue liquid swirled. "This is called the Water of the Maker." He said. "It's a poison, drinking it will force you to regenerate. But in the process, it'll show you some things you need to see."

"Ah!" Harry considered the phial with a grimace. "Sure you couldn't just tell me?"

It was Lord White who answered. "These are not matters of lore, My Lord Seeker, but of memory. The memories held in your blood. The memories of your ancestors. Memories you must experience to understand what will follow. Matters move onward, more quickly than we had hoped, and you must be ready."

"Oh, shit!" Harry growled. "It's that whole destiny thing, isn't it? How come nobody else gets a destiny like mine?"

"Not everyone gets a destiny at all." The Major told him. "Only the important ones."

Harry grunted and reached for the phial. "You'd best sit down." The Major advised him. "No point adding concussion to everything else, mate!"

"You sound like Ron." Harry remarked, taking a seat and uncorking the phial.

"There are worse folk to sound like." The Major opined. "How many will this be?"

"Third." Harry told him.

"Good luck!" The Major said.

Harry nodded and emptied the vial at a draught.

XXXXX

Cool. Delicate. Cinnamon but with something else that softened it. There was no pain, just a sensation of falling asleep. Then nothing.

She saw Harry as he emerged from the trees, and turned to flee. Desperate, he lurched after her and called out, using the name he had given her in his mind "Tinuviel, Tinuviel!". She stopped, then, and turned to face him. For the first time, their eyes met and both knew that from that moment their fates were joined.

"Is it working?" The Major asked. "I mean, I can sense he's beginning to regenerate, but the other? You're the Psyker!"

"Something is happening." Lord White allowed. "But he has gone far beyond my reach, and I cannot say what it may be."

Harry was beyond angry! Behind him, Gondolin was in flames, betrayed to destruction. In front of him stood Maeglin the betrayer, come to seize Idril, Harrys' wife. Swords clashed. Maeglin was a dour-handed fighter, but Harrys' skill and wrath were the greater, forcing his foe back, ever back, until at last Maeglin plunged over the precipice at the very spot from which his own father Eol had been cast. "We must go!" Idril called urgently. Harry sheathed his blade and turned back to his people.

"The regenerations' being held off." The Major noted. "I think Harrys' doing it himself. He knows he needs to finish whatever else is happening!"

Lord White nodded. "His will is strong."

Harry stood at the prow, irresolute. His mission had failed, the Shadow Sea had proved impassable. Yet the news Elwing had brought by the grace of Ulmo told him there was now no purpose in going back. Once again, the Sons of Feanor had done their Enemys' work for him, destroying the Haven. But had not Ulmo spoken to his father, promising an end to this Doom?

Then Elwing was beside him, proffering something wrapped in a cloak. "Take this, husband." She implored. He unwrapped it, and was for a moment dazzled by the light. "The Silmaril?" He said. "Better the accursed thing be flung into the Sea!"

"No!" Elwing told him. "Whatever spite the Sons of Feanor might hold and whatever darkness rests in Morgoths' spirit, the stone itself was hallowed by Varda – no evil may touch it. See, I have placed it into the circlet your mother gifted you. Bind it upon your brow, my Lord and love, and let it guide us to the place of its' making!"

Darkness, and time rushing by.

Harry stood upon the dais in the newly-built hall. His brother stood before him, bearing a silver rod, set with a shining diamond.

"Behold!" His brother said. "This is the Land of Gift, given to the Atanatari by the Elder King to be theirs forever. Here, brother, as the scion of the houses of Beor and Hador, you shall rule, and your heirs. Take the Sceptre, and from this hour be known as Tar-Minyatur, First High King of Men!"

And time passed.

The mariners had begged that the sails be reefed, But Harrys' heart warned him that speed mattered more than safety. So they had run before the storm for three days. The sails were torn, but masts and hulls were whole, and at sunset, under a sky of blood-red clouds, he had come to shore. Before him lay peaks he recognised – Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains in the North-West of Eriador. So they were in the Kingdom of Lindon, ruled by Harry's friend Gil-Galad, High King of Eldar in Middle-Earth. Harry ordered the ships beached, and was the first to set foot on land. As he did so, he made his vow: "Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta!"

More centuries.

Harry realised the darkness was breaking. The wind had changed, blowing in from the Sea and dispersing the clouds the Enemy had brewed. The wind had also permitted them to set sail, where before they had been forced to the oars. He glanced over his fleet. Corsair ships, built for raids, designed to set large land forces down quickly and efficiently. This flagship carried his own Rangers, Legolas and his Dark Reapers and Gimlis' Combat Engineers. The others were filled with fighting men of the Southern fiefs of Gondor -those who had been held off from Minas Tirith by the threat of this very fleet. The Paths of the Dead had been a gamble, but it had paid off.

But now he could see Minas Tirith. The White Tower still sparkled in the rising sun, but the Citys' feet were obscured by the smoke of battle that raged across the Pelennor. The landings of the Harlond were filled with enemy troops, who even now were waving the fleet on urgently. Harry smiled grimly. "Halbarad!" He called. "Let's show them who's here! Unfurl the standard!"

Golden light, pain that wasn't quite pain, and Harry was awake. Lord White and the Major were both looking at him.

"I suppose," the Major said, "that I shouldn't be surprised!"

"The resemblance is remarkable." White added. "Except for the scar."

"Both heads as well!" The Major remarked.

"What!" Harry said, and both the others burst out laughing.

"Pair of piss-taking gits!" Harry growled. "Where's a mirror? Let me see the worst!"

White conjured a reflective circle the air in front of him. Harry was less surprised than he should have been by what he saw. Tall – almost seven feet, he judged – broad-shouldered and powerfully built. A thick mane of jet-black hair that fell around his face. The face itself was thin but strong, the broad brow marked by the familiar scar, but dominated by a pair of piercing sea-grey eyes.

"Beren, Tuor, Earendil, Elros, Elendil, Aragorn." He said softly. "All in there, but it's still me!"

He got to his feet, then staggered slightly. "Huh!" He said. "This regeneration lark takes it out of you a bit! If nobody minds, I'm off to bed. We can talk when I've had some kip!"

He left. White turned to the Major. "Why you, WarLord? Where is The Doctor?"

The Major shrugged. "The Doctor can't get involved in this one." He said. "There's somebody on the other side who'll know everything he or she is up to. So at the moment The Doctor is more of a liability than an asset. River managed to find a version that none of the others remember, but using her is risky, so we'll have to let her go after the one job. The Marine will be there to give a hand, but the Deacon has other work to do.

"We'll just have to make do with what we've got, TimeMage!"