The Song of Adala

by burnseleanor21

The Daleks and Movellans vie for control of a strange, remote planet where human society has lapsed into feudalism and religious fanaticism, while the Doctor tries to sabotage both their efforts. Soon, however, they are forced into uneasy alliances when it becomes apparent that the superstitions of the natives are neither as baseless nor as primitive as they had supposed ...

2. Chapter 2 - The Raggedy Ranger

This takes me back … to Castrovalva, thought the Doctor, cynically. He was hunched over a wooden bench in Lord Palomar's library, glaring intently through the flickering candlelight at a weighty tome that contained what laughably passed for Mondever's official 'history.' At least Castrovalva's was well-written – let's give the Master credit for diction – and mercifully short on pseudo-religious waffle. It was plausibly reliable for the last couple of centuries, but then degenerated into allegories, legends, unlikely folk heroes, and suchlike mythopoeic drivel long before it had any excuse to. Five measly little centuries since the Pèlerin made landfall here. What sort of time is that for a colony to forget its roots, or to distort them into a fairy story?

Reading between the fights of fancy, though, he could see the echoes of the history which he already knew of, thank Rassilon for shoddy Dalek firewalls. In Terran year 4524, a cult of Christian Revivalists had left Old Earth at the behest of self-proclaimed prophet Michel Verne, bound for the galactic rim, where Verne's visions supposedly told him that they would find paradise. More by luck than judgement, their clapped-out ship Pèlerin did manage to run across a planet with a small but adequate habitable zone, on the far fringes of the Centaurus Arm, then mostly uncharted territory. While Monde de Verne, as it was then christened, fell somewhat short of paradise, after a six-year voyage in a refitted mining tug, living off a dwindling supply of dehydrated rations and recycled water, the Doctor could well suppose that its discovery had done no harm whatsoever for Captain Verne's reputation. But then what happened to them?

Some of it made sense, in its way. In this age of technology, pollution, Dalek wars, and mass scepticism, this was by no means the only rogue human colony to favour a pseudo-theocratic society and primitive, agrarian living conditions. But Goddess Adala? Where did she spring from? The cult had certainly not brought that belief with them. Not that theology's my thing, but does anyone give their deity a gender switch just for fun? Then, there was the unlikely speed at which the colonists had written over their past, and removed all artefacts of it from their lives. Even the descendants of the Hydrax crash kept a few knick-knacks, and they were ruled over by technophobic vampires. How is the Ecclesium so good at this? Finally, and perhaps most disturbingly, there was the Daleks, or rather the suspicious lack of them. They had four solid months before the Movellans arrived here. On an underdeveloped world like this, that's usually more than enough time for our mutant friends to massacre millions of people, enslave the survivors, devastate the ecology, gut the natural resources, and still leave time for tea. What force could have hindered them … and is it something I ever want to meet?

While he was pondering that, without any success, Lord Palomar entered the library, wearing an even graver look than he had before. Well, all good safe havens come to an end, some more quickly than others, thought the Doctor, with grim foresight, just before the marchlord spoke, and wasted no time in justifying his pessimism:

"Bad news, my friend: you will not be able to remain here for long. Oh, there is no immediate danger," he added, reassuringly, "but my daughter has returned from the citadel. It shames me to say it, but I do not trust her. The Fair Folk have enthralled her with their arts and their lies, though I will win her back. In the meantime, though, it is better if she does not see you, but I cannot keep the pair of you separated indefinitely. I shall arrange for your, err, blue chest to be transported to Capel Dura. Sir Emric is a loyal vassal, and moreover he loves these Fay no more than I do. He would gladly shelter any enemy of theirs. You must leave for there as soon as night has fallen, then you may travel more safely. We will meet again though, Lord Doctor, and it must be soon. We should assemble every lord and knight who has not already sold their soul and their honour to these invaders, and they must hear everything you have told me about them. When they know the truth we must gather our strength, march on the citadel, and put an end to this mockery of an 'Alliance' … if it is not already too late."

"There's hope," replied the Doctor, carefully, "and a spot of unity won't do any harm, but I'd rethink the marching bit, if I were you. Violence is all well and good, but for all their prettiness and courtesy the, err, 'Fair Folk' are surprisingly adept at kicking heads in."

"What alternative is there?" asked Lord Palomar, his warlike but well-meaning scepticism making the Doctor almost nostalgic for his UNIT days. "You mean to parley with the Fay Queen? You told me yourself that they are deceitful, dishonourable creatures. What hope is there in trading more worthless words with them?"

"They're also logical, and that can be their weakness: a clever and calculating people, but awfully predictable. A bit of discreet sabotage and disruption might be enough to upset their plans so much that they give this place up as a bad lot and move somewhere quieter. Hopefully, it might even persuade their high command that turning humans into AIs … into other Fair Folk, sorry, is not a good strategy per se. Strange though it may seem, this isn't a real conquest to them: it's only an experiment. If we mess up her Petri dish enough, our 'Fay Queen' may well deem it a failure and leave you all in peace."

"They would just leave? Without taking their revenge? That is hard to believe."

"Revenge is not their way," to do them as much credit as they deserve. "Not that I want to cast aspersions on the bravery of you and your brothers-in-arms, but Mondever is no threat to them at all. That was why they chose it: to refine their integration process and their 'recruitment' strategies before taking them to more central planets … err, countries. Their ultimate aim, of course, isn't too dissimilar to that of the Dal– … the Iron Golems: namely the extinction of humanity, or as good as, but since they're rather more logical and a lot less psychopathic than said Golems, they'd much prefer it if they could lure humans to stroll peacefully towards their own extinction. So much more economical …"

"And dishonourable," remarked Lord Palomar, bitterly. "So it is all true, then. My poor Caethlyn … but why do they wish us destroyed, Doctor? What is the logic in that?"

"Because … you're real," he explained, although he instantly felt uneasy about it. Not exactly the height of political correctness, and I doubt K9 would have let that remark pass without a sharp riposte, but how else does one break the concept of artificial intelligence to a feudal overlord? "They're synthetic, originally made to serve beings like us: organic beings, who didn't treat them very well, in all fairness, and now that's to all our misfortune. For their logic now tells the 'Fair Folk' that real beings will always be a danger to synthetic ones, and will try to make them their slaves … unless they beat us to it, basically."

"Of course. It's true, I have seen them in death," said Lord Palomar, distastefully. "That first action against the Iron Golems, when we retook Formarroc: I saw one of the Fay warriors struck down by a fire weapon, blown apart. Her blood was like liquid gold, and lightning came out of her. Instead of flesh and bone, her insides were full of steel, copper, and glass. They are as you say, soulless things, with no more life in them than the Iron Golems themselves."

"Err, yes," said the Doctor, while the image of a Kaled mutant, in all of its Cthulhu-in-a-blender glory flashed into his mind, but he decided that subject was best left alone. "Different life in them, anyway, which is fine. Difference is cool, whereas bullying and manipulating people until they agree to become what you think they ought to be really isn't, and needs to be stopped."

"And you hope to find the answers in there?" asked Lord Palomar, casting a doubtful glance towards the history book. "I wish you every joy of it, but I can't vouch for how much of that may be strictly true, or not. All I can vouch for is that it was all written and approved by the Ecclesium. You might as well seek inspiration in the Song of Adala."

"We're not quite down to Bible study class just yet, but you've got a point," he admitted, closing the folio with a disappointed sigh. "A few helpful hints would have been nice, but your Ecclesium certainly prefers its sacred mysteries to straight answers."

"Hints on what, Doctor? Perhaps I can be of help."

"Well, something to explain why the Iron Golems did such a poor job of invading and subduing Mondever would be enlightening. Especially if that's some factor we can turn against the Fair Folk, or just use it to persuade them to pack up their catsuits and move elsewhere."

"'A poor job?'" repeated Lord Palomar, incredulously. "They destroyed whole villages, murdered hundreds. Not for nothing did we welcome the Fair Folk, and accede to so many of their demands, overruling the Ecclesium for the first time in living memory. Even I did, at first."

"Much as I hate to say it, that still counts as a poor job for them. They ought to have had no trouble at all reducing this place to a toxic cinder, but instead they just made a few half-hearted raids while their enemies closed in. Not their style at all. If we can learn what it was that held them back, we might have the makings of a … That can't be good," he remarked, at the sounds of commotion that suddenly emanated from the corridor, punctuated by occasional metallic clashes. Lord Palomar was equally quick to take the hint, drawing his falchion, but before he could make it to the door it swung violently open, almost catching him in the face and knocking the sword out of his hand. On the other side of the door, her leg still raised from the kick she had just given it, was a dark-skinned, bald-headed woman in tight, pale clothing and leather armour. Her expression was bland and neutral, but the dagger in her hand made up for its lack of obvious threat.

As she entered the room, she held the point of her blade to Lord Palomar's neck, forcing him to retreat until his back was against one of the vast bookshelves. In the meantime other, similar figures followed her in: men and women, all young-looking, hairless, with clear brown skin in both light and dark tones, all wearing the same utilitarian clothing, the same emotionless expressions, and those, thought the Doctor, noticing the grey metal cylinders that each of them wore close to their bodies, on iron-studded leather belts. Neural circuits and power packs. It was a desperate hope, but the only one currently on offer, and as the squad leader's attention seem to be focused on Lord Palomar, the Doctor made a grab for her belt cylinder. His hand did not quite make it, on account of her free hand suddenly swinging around in a fist that connected heavily with his stomach. As he collapsed to the stone floor in winded agony, he heard her voice from above, cold, pitiless, and with perhaps just a soupçon of smug triumph:

"I do not think so, Time Lord. Once was enough, thank you."

"Oh … sorry," he replied, wheezily. "Didn't know … we'd met before."

"You don't remember me? Then I must apologise, Doctor. I did not realise I was so nondescript, but I had supposed that saving your life would be enough of a reason for you to recall my face. Try picturing me in standard uniform, then what do you see?"

"An even … sillier looking … Movellan?"

"Very droll," she deadpanned. "In that case, cast your mind back approximately ninety years of relative time, to Skaro. You and a friend of yours, for reasons best known to yourselves, were having a conversation out in the wasteland, in an exposed area less than a kilometre away from the Daleks' HQ. Predictably, a Dalek found you, and was on the point of leading you away to be exterminated. I intervened and killed it. Then, as you had been deemed too valuable to be left to commit suicide but were showing no inclination to self-preservation, I attempted to force you to return to the safety of our spacecraft. You decided not to cooperate, pulled off my neural pack, and left me in the wasteland; deactivated, helpless, and for unknown reasons partially undressed and with your fingerprints on my chest. I was, however, fortunate enough to be later found by a Movellan search and rec team. Do you recall me now?"

"Yes … and that is so putting … the worst spin on it," he declared, his voice recovering somewhat as he dragged himself back to his feet, although the best he could presently manage was a painfully hunched posture. "I also feel I ought to point out … bearing grudges is not very logical."

"No grudges, Doctor. Our goals were in conflict, therefore you acted rationally and ruthlessly. I approve. On this occasion, however, it would seem that my capacity for reason has exceeded yours. Bad luck, but if it is any consolation, know that our goals will soon no longer be in conflict. Commodore Akylah has plans for you."

"How in Adala's name did you get into my keep, Fay?" asked Lord Palomar, scathingly. "You may have taken most of my men-at-arms, but I know the strength of my own castle. Even with such a small garrison, Fordeval has never fallen."

"It helps, My Lord, to have an inside man," answered the Movellan, without cruelty in her tone, but the information alone was more than enough to move the marchlord to despair.

"You mean … Caethlyn? My own daughter has betrayed me?"

"It would be more accurate to state that your son – who has sworn his allegiance to us, incidentally – has exposed your betrayal," she clarified, although to the Doctor's confusion. Does she have crossed wires, or is she just hard of hearing? "You have given aid and succour to a spy, an outlander, a heretic, and an enemy of the Alliance. Even the Ecclesium will not openly oppose your arrest. You will accompany Corporal Vazily and his squad to Montcarmille, where you will be confined until your trial."

"You can't do this," he protested, although miserably rather than defiantly. "What of Fordeval, what of my estates? Who will– ?"

"I am confident the marchioness will be more than capable of managing them in your absence … your very likely prolonged absence, My Lord. Take him, Corporal," she ordered one of her comrades, who bowed his assent, and stepped forwards. He seized Lord Palomar by the arm and led him to the door, although not without futile struggles and more protests:

"No! This is an outrage, I … Let me see my daughter first. I want–"

"I see no logical reason for needlessly distressing him, My Lord," interrupted the Movellan sergeant, again confusing the Doctor. Either she really is hard of hearing, or this conversation is taking place through a dimensional warp. "Your son is now one of us, but be aware that he did not denounce you lightly. He would not wish to see you in such humiliating circumstances, so I shall spare him the sight. Proceed, Vazily," she commanded, and Lord Palomar was accordingly dragged out into the corridor and away, with only a few broken mumblings by way of resistance.

"There was no need for that," said the Doctor, both harshly and remorsefully. So much for the hope I promised him. "You came for me , now you've got me. Besides, isn't taking the poor man's daughter more than enough punishment for him?"

"Not for me to decide, Doctor. That is a command decision, and no matter for a mere NCO to presume upon."

"Ninety years since we last met, and still in the ranks?" he pointed out, dryly. "Plodding a bit in your career, aren't you? I happen to know that integrated humans have been promoted over your head. That must raise the hackles a bit … if Movellans have hackles."

"Personal ambition is not foremost among our traits. I believe I serve to the best of my ability as a staff sergeant, and I prefer to work with my troops, in the field, rather than sitting at consoles sifting data and trying to manage the bigger picture, detached from the action," she replied, again taking him unexpectedly back to his UNIT days. Dear old Sergeant Benton … They'd have made the perfect blind date, if they could have overlooked the astronomical age difference and the whole 'remorseless alien android' shtick. "In any case, my career is the least of your worries. Now, I must insist that you accompany us. Please bear in mind that it would only be a minor inconvenience for me to have to haul your unconscious body from here to the courtyard, if you get the urge to do anything ill-advised."

Well, better a blunt invitation than a blunt instrument to the back of the head, the Doctor consoled himself, as he trudged after the departing troopers, with the point of the staff sergeant's dagger hovering disturbingly close to his back. In such a manner they processed through the corridor, down a spiral flight of stairs, along a hallway, and back out into the courtyard, where the scene was bathed in the blueish rays of the late sunset but was otherwise depressingly similar. A group of servants and men-at-arms – presumably those who had shown the most resistance – had been rounded up against the curtain wall, some of them sporting fresh wounds, while a small team of Movellan archers kept them covered with drawn longbows. Wot, no rayguns? Is that just good cultural diplomacy, or something significant? Meanwhile, another group of unarmed Movellans were both supervising and assisting the remaining servants in preparing two carts. One of them was a covered wagon with a round canvas canopy, while the other was a simple flatbed affair, but large and sturdy, which was just as well as the TARDIS was currently being loaded onto it, on its side. The mostly elderly and juvenile servants had been exempted from this task, and they watched in amazement as the slim, androgynous, delicate-looking 'Fair Folk' lifted the police box with ridiculous ease. Well, at least if it's coming with us, it won't be far away if I get the chance to run … for all the good that's going to do me, he thought, irritably. Still, perhaps the drive fault was only temporary. If not, I daresay I can find a flying pig to escape on.

As the prisoner and escort party approached the carts, the officer in charge turned away from the labourers to greet them. Unlike the other Movellans, she was attired in their standard, distinctive uniform: a full-length, one-piece bodysuit of white, skin-tight fabric layered over with a thigh-length, belted tunic; calf-high combat boots; silver neck armour; and artificial silver-white hair, worn in long braids tipped with metal beads. But again, no blaster, he noticed, observing the empty hook on her silver belt. They're not usually so attentive to organic sensibilities, especially when raiding and bullying said organics. Am I not the only trespasser here with technical problems? As they drew closer, he realised that her face was familiar to him, although the last time he had seen it it had been covered in ash and lifeless. Lieutenant, or rather Commander Keryn, he corrected himself, in deference to her black hair beads and the bright green LED epaulettes on her tunic. Well, that's one pseudo-friendly face … I can but hope.

"Keryn," he greeted her, as warmly as possible, under the circumstances. "Well that's a relief: at least one of you is still keeping the spirit of Disco Fever alive." She acknowledged the witticism with a smile, although it almost made him regret having made it: it was a well-intentioned but awkward expression that did not quite reach her impassive eyes. He found that particularly sad, as Keryn had once been human: a Kaldor City programmer, who had in her past life designed constraining software for artificially intelligent robots, and whom the Movellans had contacted and guilt-tripped into becoming the test subject for their integration process, and already so much like them, enough even to be given command duties. So much bland etiquette, so little actual emotion … or maybe I'm just nowhere near as funny as I'd like to believe.

"I am pleased to see you well, Doctor," she replied, cordially. "I assume that you are well."

"Bruised but not beaten, shall we say? Well, actually, that's untrue. Definitely beaten," he declared, with a resentful glance at the staff sergeant, who returned him a perfectly indifferent one. "Alive, though, which is always something."

"Indeed … and I have not forgotten that I owe you my life. I would still have been on Skaro in the charred wreck of my old body, but for you. Nor has Commodore Akylah forgotten it. In spite of the furtive manner of your presence here, I can promise you that you will come to no further harm as long as you cooperate fully."

"Great … and if I don't?"

"That would be for Akylah to decide," she answered, although her subdued, somewhat regretful tone and expression were not conducive to optimism. "My hope is that the issue will not arise. Now, if you would care to step aboard," she invited him, gesturing towards the covered wagon, while the gentle but insistent prodding of the sergeant's dagger in the region of his spinal column served to emphasise the point. With a resigned sigh, he pulled aside the canvas flap and heaved himself into the compartment.

Dregs of sunlight filtered through the thin canopy, filling the interior with a murky blue ambience, but it was enough for the Doctor to make out the pair of wooden benches set lengthwise on either side, and his fellow passenger. Not a Movellan, thank Omega for small mercies, but not for want of trying, alas, he thought, as he surveyed the young woman's clothing with dismay: simple, unadorned garments in pale, tight-fitting suede, very similar to those of the troopers, albeit without any armour or insignia. A conscript, then. Her dark hair was close-cropped, while her high cheekbones and aquiline nose gave her a marked resemblance to Lord Palomar, and the cynical scowl kind of helps the effect, he thought, while wishing it was not so obviously directed at him. Had her hostility towards him been in any doubt, it was ably confirmed by the weapon in her hands. At last, a blaster. It feels almost reassuringly normal to have a gun pointed at me, although even this was not quite normal. It was certainly Movellan tech, to judge from its white metal finish, sleek lines, and silver details, but still on the suspiciously low-tech end. It had no powered components as far as he could make out, but a front-mounted detachable magazine, some kind of spring-loaded kinetic mechanism on its top, and a side-mounted hatch for ejecting spent casings. Percussion pistol? Whatever next, flint axes? Not that it isn't going to hurt lots – not to mention briefly – if she actually fires that thing, he reminded himself, estimating the trajectory of her aim and finding it roughly consistent with the location of his left heart. In view of that, discretion seemed wise, so he slumped obediently onto the bench opposite and avoided her gaze for some few, awkward, silent minutes, enlivened only by the sounds of preparation from outside.

Eventually, following the crack of a whip from up front, the wagon jerked into motion, so suddenly that the inertia sent both passengers sprawling on the benches. The Doctor was the first to right himself, and was on the point of leaning across to assist his fellow-passenger, but his chivalry was misinterpreted: as soon as she perceived his approach, she jerked upright, trained the pistol back on his chest, and glared at him fiercely.

"Don't even try it, traitor," she hissed, menacingly. "Sit right back down and stay still."

"Okay, okay," he replied, doing his best to strike a conciliatory tone as he retreated to his bench. "I didn't mean anything by it, Lady Caethlyn, but–"

"Don't call me that," she snapped back. "I'm no 'lady.'"

"Well … no, I guess you wouldn't be, now," he remarked, remembering what the staff sergeant had said of her defection. "You're a Movellan trooper now, right?"

"Right," she answered, no less icily.

"Okay, though may I say that you do sound a bit emotional for a Movellan?"

"That won't be a problem, ere long."

"Good-oh … and that doesn't bother you?"

"Not at all."

"Fair enough, only the thing is I know our robot buddies of old, see? I know how they like to give people a … well, a very one-sided view of things. In your own interests, Miss Palomar, I thought that you deserved to know both sides–"

"Don't call me that, either."

"Sorry," he answered, rather sheepishly, although he could not fathom the reason. I seem to be making a right hash of diplomacy today, but it would be nice to know why. "Err, you are Lord Palomar's daughter though, aren't you? The resemblance is quite–"

"I'm Lord Palomar's son, if you must know." Seconds passed in which the Doctor processed what he had just heard with what he could see. Lord Palomar told me he only has the one child, and his 'son' here is clearly female, in her early twenties at a guess. The voice, the face … although she is definitely very flat in the chest. The Movellans might expect her to cut her hair short for factory work, but to bind her breasts? No, I do believe I've been missing the glaringly obvious. Apparently our Caethlyn was the 'inside man' in more ways than one.

"Ah. In that case, My Lord, you have my apologies," said the Doctor, without irony, and much to the young man's surprise.

"You … you don't find that laughable, or heretical? As a friend of my father's, I'd have expected you to disapprove strongly … but you don't?"

"Well, that rather depends. If you mean do I disapprove of you for being a man, then no, because that would be stupid. On the other hand, if you mean do I disapprove of you for denouncing me to the Movellans, I would have to say that the jury's out."

"The Fair Folk are our friends," he protested, albeit with a new, faint note of shame in his voice. "You have no right to oppose them, whoever you are, and besides, they're inclined to be merciful. Commander Keryn told me: the Queen wants you for her court … her officer corps, sorry. I will get all of this right, I will."

"No, no. You're doing fine, and I like the poetic versions better, anyway. It makes it all sound so much less sterile and unappealing."

"It's better than death, isn't it? If this was just a skirmish between two marchlords like back in the old days, and they'd caught you sneaking around in their territory, you'd have been boiled alive, no questions asked. You should be thankful the Movellans are civilised people."

"Civilised people, right … who, incidentally, would really enjoy unfettered access to my TARDIS, but we'll let that pass for now," he decided, noticing the conscript's bewildered expression. "You're not quite ready for that concept, I think. Anyway, call me old-fashioned, but I've always felt good friends should celebrate each other's differences, rather than ruthlessly iron them out with neural cell transference surgery."

"And what matter even if they do want to claim us all for their own? They have that right. We owe them our lives."

"Hmm. Possibly."

"You think the Daleks would have shown us more mercy, stranger?"

"Doctor, please. I like an air of mystery, but let's not overdo it. And I'm to call you … ?"

"Tamril."

"Pleased to meet you, and to pick up your last question, definitely not. No, they'd have found ways to make boiling alive seem like a gentle soak in the hot tub. You're well rid of them, no arguments there. I'm just not convinced the ersatz elf brigade can claim all the credit for that. Your world isn't what it seems, Tamril. There's something–" but before he could elaborate on this omen, the wagon jerked to a sudden halt, and the sound of muffled conversation was heard from the driver's bench. As the passengers righted themselves and exchanged confused glances, a flap in the canvas opened at the forward end, and the face of the NCO appeared in it. Whilst an urgent expression was beyond her scope, the grim cast of her eyes did not inspire much optimism.

"Staff Lilka?" asked Tamril. "Is something– ?"

"Lower your voice," she interrupted, in a firm but subdued tone. "There is enemy activity in the area. I need you out here, Tamril. You, stay there," she ordered the Doctor, with a less than concerned air, although her indifference for his safety appalled him much less than her cavalier attitude towards Tamril's.

"You're going to let the lad go up against Daleks, with that?" he asked with scornful incredulity, while gesturing at Tamril's kinetic blaster, but the young would-be Movellan did not take this well-meaning assumption of his fragility at all kindly, as he answered in a defiant whisper:

"I'm no coward, Doctor, and the bullets are bastic-headed. Yes, I'm no primitive either," he added, with clear satisfaction at the Time Lord's astonishment. Do I come across as patronising? I really must work on that, someday. "I could even give you the chemical formula for the explosive, if you like. I used to work in munitions before Staff Lilka moved me up to hardware."

"Which is all very well, but one shot from a Dalek and none of that knowledge is going to–"

"I do not believe I mentioned Daleks," interrupted Lilka, stonily. "We waste time. Just bring the Doctor with you, Trooper. On consideration, it is better that he is not left to sneak away." Not the kindest of reflections on my courage, although I guess it serves me right, thought the Doctor, while Tamril – his expression apologetic but his gestures no less resolute – signalled for him to lead the way with the barrel of his pistol. Wearily, the Doctor dragged himself off the bench and clambered out of the vehicle.

The sun had now set, but the light of the moons Hypatia and Praxilla provided a colder version of its blue ambience, broken and filtered by the thick violet foliage of the forest canopy overhead. The twisted shapes of the local tree-analogues surrounded them on all sides, their fine-textured grey bark and smoothly-flowing lines varied by the bulges of nascent branches, often conveying the impression of strange, leprous animals or figures that had been frozen in place. Such a lovely, Dantean air to it, thought the Doctor, insincerely, although the inner sarcasm helped him keep his nerves at bay. I must drag my old friend William Blake here one day. Give him a sketchbook and an opium pipe, and he'll have the time of his life. A gentle but firm hand on his shoulder distracted him from his reverie, and he turned to see Tamril indicating that they should join the others. Both carts and several horses now stood idle in the glade, while the Movellans had all gathered a short distance away, examining something that the Doctor could not make out through the mass of gathered figures. I'm not even sure I want to, he thought, as they drew closer and a foul, sickly smell suddenly assailed his nostrils. It's oddly familiar, though, which just goes to show the kind of places I like to hang … Ah, mystery solved, he realised, as the crowd parted enough for him to see the source of the nauseating stench.

The remains of two Daleks stood in the midst of the semicircle of troopers, badly mangled and stained with the blood and ooze of their 'contents.' Their upper sections were so twisted and breached that the dead mutants within could be clearly seen, their corpses so brutally mutilated they were almost a more hideous sight than in their normal state. Which would be hard, let's face it. Another curious thing was their equipment. Instead of the standard sucker-tipped manipulator arm, the devices in their utility sockets were long, ball-mounted tubes that terminated in flared nozzles, the insides of which were caked in ash. Pyro-flames. These two were trying to clear the terrain when whatever happened, happened to them. Their weapon-arms were also notable, as instead of their standard pylon-like energy weapons each Dalek was sporting a long tube with a ventilated shroud, more like the barrel of some antiquated machine gun. More vintage accessories, and you can't tell me Daleks would ever give a stuff about diplomacy. Technical troubles all round, then. I've not seen anything quite like this since Exxilon. While he was pondering these mysteries, Commander Keryn approached, and although it seemed wrong to ascribe such a strong emotion as 'troubled' to a Movellan expression, her deep frown was powerfully hinting in that direction.

"Not your work, I take it?" asked the Doctor, nodding towards the dead Daleks.

"Unfortunately not," she answered, "although at all events, they do serve to quash these malicious rumours that there are no Daleks left in Mondever."

"I never said that there were none," he protested. "Just that there couldn't be very many, and you lot seemed to be going suspiciously easy on the few that were left. Kind of a compliment on your military prowess, actually."

"To accuse us of artificially prolonging a war to serve our own interests?"

"Your guile as well, then, but let's save that argument for later, shall we? If you lot didn't purée those poor Daleks, then what could have?"

"Local Alliance troops, perhaps?" she guessed, although from the tone of her voice she thought as little of the idea as he did. "Some of them may have looted effective enough weapons in our previous engagements. We will not solve it here. Have one of these Daleks loaded onto the cart with the TARDIS, Staff," she ordered. "It should bear the weight, and we need to make certain–"

The noise that had distracted her, and had put the entire platoon on the alert, was nothing very loud or dramatic. It might even have just been a gust of wind, not that Movellans are exactly given to jumpiness, thought the Doctor, not very hopefully. Still, in a place like this, anyone might be forgiven … I take it back. The sound had repeated: a low, soft murmuring from somewhere nearby, and although it was incoherent, its rapid tonal variations put the wind theory sadly out of the question. Troopers had started nocking bows, and drawing swords and pistols, but it was Tamril who first spotted the lurking presence. The Doctor traced the line of his pale, horrified stare to the tree line, but at first saw nothing out of the ordinary. It was some seconds before it dawned on him that what he had mistaken for a sapling or a dead shrub was actually a tall, thin, bipedal figure. It was some six feet high; with a long, narrow, slightly curving object in its right hand; and it looked to be not so much bathed in shadow as made from it. Its lines and details all seemed to fade and blur around the edges, lending it a smoke-like quality.

"Dun Shie," declared Tamril, in an awestruck, fearful, although not exactly helpful whisper. Some indigenous folklore? wondered the Doctor. That might explain why he was the first to react … only it doesn't. The Movellans should have detected an intruder before any of us, unless their sensors are on the blink too. Hoping to alleviate his confusion, he sidled closer to the commander while keeping his eyes fixed upon the still, silent watcher, and addressed her quietly:

"You've seen it? What does it scan as, Keryn?"

"Nothing," she answered, the barely audible note of worry in her voice unnerving him even more than the naked fear in Tamril's. "No mass, no radiation. To all intents and …" Speculations upon its nature suddenly seemed less wise as the dark figure started forwards. Its smoky form became hardly any clearer as it stepped into the dappled moonlight of the glade, save that two malevolent blue pinpoints occasionally glinted in its otherwise blank face. Its intent, however, was all too readable as it raised its weapon over its head in a striking stance.

"Halt, and stand down," ordered Keryn, raising her kinetic blaster. "There will be no further warn–" but before she could finish, the figure seemed to skip several frames of motion in an instant, materialised no more than a metre away from her, and swung its weapon. Keryn managed to fire a single shot, to no obvious purpose, just before the hazy black blade sheared clean through her forearm, spraying the Doctor's face with warm droplets. Android 'blood.' Electrolytic acid, he realised, forgetting the gruesomeness of the moment as he hastily wiped it away with his sleeve. Keryn, meanwhile, had instinctively reeled back in pain and shock, while her troopers showered the apparition with bullets and arrows, all of which it absorbed with silent disdain. Lilka, wielding her dagger and moving stealthily, managed to outflank it, and was taking advantage of its apparent distraction to move into a position to backstab it. That hope was dashed as the shadow-creature turned, and swept its blade around in a wide arc that terminated just beyond her neck, its smooth journey not remotely hindered by her iron-studded leather gorget. As her decapitated body collapsed into the leaves, flailing ineffectually, her attacker stepped closer, drew back its arm, and thrust the point of its sword directly into the neural pack on her belt. Her AI core: her most vital, irreplaceable component, thought the Doctor, feeling more dismay at her fate that he would have deemed likely. Whatever it is, this creature is no primitive either … Creatures, he corrected himself, dismally, as he caught sight of more vague, stalking figures now advancing into the glade, coming upon the group from all sides and wielding m ê lée weapons of various shapes, some familiar, some alien, but all incredibly lethal-looking. Hard to see how this going to end well for–

Suddenly, with a horrible chorus of keening shrieks, the shades stopped in their tracks, while twitching and flinching in evident pain or distress. The Doctor looked around to see which of the Movellans had managed to cause this happy development, and how, but every functioning member of the platoon looked just as nonplussed as he felt. At last, though, his gaze fell upon Tamril, who was kneeling on the ground in a tense, shivering posture, his head bowed, his hands clasped together, and his lips muttering frantically. Praying, realised the Doctor, although that realisation brought more confusion than enlightenment. Just for the moment, though, I'll accept whatever works. Tamril himself had now noticed the effect his panicked devotions had wrought, and he was looking around in bewilderment, but it was not many seconds before the shades started to fall quiet and recover their bearings.

"Don't stop praying!" shouted the Doctor. "Whatever that was, Tamril, keep it up! You're our only chance of getting away from here!" The young recruit hesitated, however, and cast a pained look towards Lilka's remains. "Don't worry, I'll get her!" promised the Doctor, hurrying over to the decapitated NCO while Tamril, much to his relief, resumed the mantra. As soon as he did so the shades – some of which had already resumed their advanced – recoiled again with their high-pitched, sepulchral screams. Like a vulture caught in a vice, at the bottom of a very deep and haunted well. As the Doctor picked up Lilka's mangled neural pack, and wondered how he was going to manage with both her body and her head as well, one of the troopers came over and gathered them up effortlessly.

"Everyone on horseback!" ordered Keryn, calmly but emphatically, while hastily binding up the stump of her forearm to staunch any further fluid loss. "Double up if you have to, but leave the carts! To me, Tamril, but keep up the chant!"

The troopers all hurried to their horses, many of them having to ride tandem, including the Doctor, who found himself inconveniently saddled behind a tall, broad-shouldered male Movellan who completely blocked his view ahead. Not that I was in the mood for sightseeing … Keryn and Tamril held back until the rest of the platoon was ready to go, then mounted the last horse, Tamril at the rear and still praying desperately. At last, Keryn gave the command for them to ride out, and the riders spurred their horses in perfect unison. They galloped from the glade and down the gloomy path in single file, the harsh wails of their attackers gradually fading behind them, although not as quickly as they might have desired. I suppose it was too much to hope that they wouldn't try to pursue. Let's just hope our Tamril's in good voice tonight … and that almighty Adala stays merciful to her faithful, thought the Doctor, his sense of irony undaunted by the situation. Oh yes, all very nice and folkloric: partially dematerialised warriors who understand android engineering, yet can be repelled by a simple incantation, assuming it is just that. I wonder … Something's on the tip of my tongue, if I could only remember … but maybe it'll come to me more easily when the motion sickness and the mortal danger both abate a little, he decided, as the shrill, uncanny, but now mercifully distant cries continued. Soon, however, the forest began to thin out around them and the cries receded out of hearing, leaving only the pounding of the hooves and the determined but mournful sound of Tamril's continued chanting. Poor guy. I wish I could tell him things will get easier soon, but one way or another, I think that's highly unlikely.