"Right. I can't promise you this is going to look pretty," declared the Doctor, pulling an object from his pocket. It was like a thick reel of silver ribbon, shiny and rough-textured. "Duct tape: possibly the second most useful object in the universe, and we're all out of towels, anyway."
Tamril suppressed a frustrated sigh. Be fair. He's only trying to lighten the mood, to make it easier on me … but maybe I'm sick of people trying to make things easier for me. Lilka never did. She just trusted me, he recalled, miserably, as he looked towards the inert body of the staff sergeant, stripped to the waist and propped against the half-crumbled wall of the ruined tabernacle which the platoon had made their temporary refuge. Re-attaching her head had been a simple matter which, with the aid of a Movellan field repair kit, the Doctor had managed confidently. She had lost a lot of electrolytic fluid, but other troopers had donated some of theirs, so her body was in fit condition, more or less. She looks … terrible, he could not help but admit, as he looked at the ragged line along her neck, and the exposed access panel in her midriff where the fluid had been siphoned into her. Still, her healing magic … her auto-repair can fix her flesh wounds, just as long as she isn't dead, but this point was where his optimism failed him. The Doctor had certainly done his best to repair her impaled phylactery, but Tamril had seen his expressions as he had worked on it, and at no point had they conveyed the man's frequent air of brash confidence. Now, as he bound the damaged casing of the hastily repaired circuits in the thick, sticky-backed ribbon, as if he was bandaging a wounded limb, he still wore an air of deep uncertainty.
"What are her chances, Doctor?" asked Tamril, with grim resolve. "Was she very badly damaged?"
"It could have been better … but she might have been lucky. That blade must have been strong indeed to penetrate duralinium, but it was also sharp and clean. I think the … err …"
"The Dun Shie," Tamril reminded him. "Outcast spirits, who dwell in the Profound Darkness. A common superstition … or so I thought them."
"Those things, yes, but we'll worry about them later. I think our 'spirit' was aiming for her CPU or her power source. Either would have killed her for sure, but instead it only sliced the connection between the two. Re-wiring that was easy enough, but I'm afraid it also cut through a fair few of her index registers and memory chips on the way. I did the best I could to fix all the signal traces, bearing in mind that steady-state micro-welding isn't easy at the best of times, never mind when you have to do it without proper power, monitoring, or even any decent lighting. At any rate, it won't hurt to keep our fingers crossed. She means a lot to you, doesn't she?"
"I suppose … She was the first person I ever knew who took me seriously. That sounds strange, I know. I was a forced labourer, she was an overseer … but I felt more like an equal with her than I ever did with my own kind. She judged me for my skills, my intelligence, my attitudes. Not for my looks, or my piety, or my chances of ever making a good marriage. Maybe I'm being sentimental, though. I don't really know what I meant to her, if anything … but I thought of her as a friend, even if she never reciprocated."
"She thought highly of your competency, your clarity of thought, your enquiring mind, and your consistency," declared Commander Keryn, as she came over to join them, while flexing her newly-repaired forearm rather stiffly. "She welcomed your decision to integrate and looked forward to serving alongside you. Is that not friendship?" Tamril was grateful for this well-intentioned interruption, but he noted the cynical curl of the Doctor's mouth as the strange scientist reached into his pockets again, and extracted a small pair of scissors. Well, I suppose it isn't the most jovial definition of friendship, but I'll accept it, if I can only have her back. "Have you nearly finished, Doctor? I am eager to be moving. The sentinels have seen dark figures moving near the edges of the forest. They are not moving into the open yet, but I would not care to tempt fate."
"Almost," answered the Doctor, while he trimmed around the sides of his tape 'bandage.' "I might have gone a bit overboard with the old duct tape, taped over some of her signal diodes. One can have too much of a good thing, but we'll know how well I've done soon enough. Anyway, we're safe enough here, aren't we?" he asked, directing the question to Tamril.
"The legends all say the Dun Shie can't venture onto holy ground," he answered, "though I can't tell you how true those legends may or may not be. Still, I'd have said the same for the Chant of Deliverance, but …"
"Yes, I'll be curious to hear more about that, but just for now, let's have those crossed fingers instead," said the Doctor, and the anxious, pleading look with which he regarded his handiwork almost had the air of a prayer itself. He sighed, leaned over, and clipped the jury-rigged cylinder back onto Lilka's belt, then reached into her access panel with a handheld thermal lance, and made some final adjustments. For several agonising seconds nothing happened, but then her eyes opened, looked around, settled upon the Doctor, and narrowed into an expression of unmistakeable sentience, although far removed from friendliness.
"Doctor, not for the first time, you seem to have your hands all over my half-naked body. I require an explan–"
"Saving your life," he cut across her, coldly, "and don't mention it." Anyone would think he regretted helping her, but I don't. I owe him … if only I knew how to return the favour.
"I see," replied Lilka, momentarily bemused. "Yes, I remember. I was attacked and defeated, so what you say is logical."
"Great, so I guess I'm forgiven?" he asked, ironically.
"You have my gratitude, of course."
"Enough gratitude to let me go peacefully on my way?"
"You know, Doctor, that I have no authority to simply–"
"Of course you haven't. Silly question. How morally convenient it is to be so unimportant," he said, bitterly, as he sealed the screws around her access panel. When that was done, he stood up, walked over to a gaping breach in the tabernacle wall that overlooked the forest, and stood there in watchful silence. Looking back to where we left his … ship? I wanted my freedom so badly. Have I robbed the Doctor of his, though?
"Commander Keryn," asked Tamril, nervously, fearful of being presumptuous but determined to make the attempt. "Could we release him? Surely he has proven himself a friend."
"There are issues beyond that, Tamril," she replied, not unkindly, but firmly. "Still, I am sure a reasonable compromise can be achieved, as long as the Doctor is accommodating. Perhaps if he was to allow us to make a full study of his TARDIS before we allowed him to–"
"I'm sorry?" asked the Doctor, not at all apologetically, as he turned back towards them. "You think I'd ever give the Movellans the secrets of time? Much as I hate to disappoint, jog on."
"We would be fools to release you having gained nothing, Doctor. In any case, if you consider yourself to be a responsible custodian of that knowledge, I fail to see why we–"
"Because I don't want to wage war against the whole of sentient organic creation, and replace it with some bland, synthetic utopia populated entirely by pretty beige androids … sorry to be so personal, but your 'integration' plans would have made my old pal Aldous Huxley choke on his mescaline. I hope I make my point."
"Emphatically," replied Keryn, with a note of displeasure, "and I, for my part, am sorry that you see my people in such a negative light. I am sorrier still that you may yet force us to make you one of us, if that is the only way to make you see things from our perspective."
"Your people, Keryn? You don't feel any moral obligation to humanity?"
"None, Doctor. The fact that I was human by birth is incidental, and no cause of pride for me. I know of worlds where the indigenous inhabitants think that there is little to choose between the pure hatred of the Daleks, or the greed and lust of human imperialists. Then, of course, we must consider the slavery that is inflicted upon artificially intelligent life throughout human-settled space. Only we have both the power and the will to end that abuse, and we will do so as logically and as economically as possible, with or without your compliance. In any case, Doctor, is all this not academic at present? Supposing I was to release you, and you were to somehow make your way back to the TARDIS without being hacked to pieces by those apparitions. Are you quite confident of taking off?"
"I … could give it my best … but maybe you've a point," he conceded, unwillingly. "Perhaps I ought to have a quick chat with Akylah about the strictly technical side of things. The subject of my 'integration,' however, will be staying well and truly closed."
"Possibly, depending on your attitude," said Keryn, severely. "Such arguments will mean nothing, however, if these 'spirits of darkness' are to become a permanent fixture."
"Another good point, well made. So you've never run across the Dun Shie before?"
"Not to my knowledge, although as a rule we have avoided night engagements. Our local allies have been resistant to the idea of them. Now we know why."
"Perhaps, Commander, we should hear from Trooper Tamril," suggested Lilka, as she climbed rather awkwardly back to her feet, lacing on her jerkin as she did so. "His information on these aliens is likely to be distorted, but of value."
"Agreed, particularly on how to repel them. That prayer you used, Tamril: what was it?"
"Just a verse, from the Song of Adala," he answered, pleased to be consulted but worried that his information, such as it was, would prove disappointing. "One of the early ones, when the Prophet Verne was still lost in the Wilderness of Sardeny, just before the Goddess told him the way to the Promised Land. To test his faith, she let all these evil spirits attack him, and he uttered the First Chant of Deliverance. We all learn it, from the Archcardinal to the lowliest serf."
"Just as well," observed the Doctor, "if Adala's one of those deities who likes siccing eldritch abominations on people whenever she feels a bit unloved or insecure … May we have it?"
"'Blessed Lady of the Eleven Heavens, a thousand score foes assail me. Send the Hundred and One Angels of Light to defend thy servant. The Seventeen Lords of Chaos rise from the Chasm of Perdition on the back of the twelve-winged, seven-headed Dragon. It bares its six hundred and fifty-six teeth and its hundred and thirty-three claws. Smite those who persecute me with a hundred and twenty-three thousand, seven hundred and eighty-three afflictions, and–'"
"I got the gist," interrupted the Doctor, emphatically. "They sure don't write 'em like that anymore, thank Rassilon … and thank you, Tamril. That was curiously enlightening. What did you make of it, Keryn?" he asked, turning to the commander, who had assumed a thoughtful expression. "Come on, now. It's your professional reputation on the line."
"I left that life behind, as you seem so keen to remind me," she replied, "but I take it you mean to imply … ? Well, it certainly was extremely numerical in character. I suppose it is vaguely possible it describes some form of computer program, but to what purpose?"
"You can't guess?" he asked, with a faint edge of triumph. "My mistake. I was forgetting, Movellans and imagination rarely go together, but I'd dared to hope you might have–"
"Get to the point, Time Lord," she cut back in, harshly. "If you are eager to see the leftovers of my humanity, know that I lack the patience that is becoming to a true AI. Kindly 'wow' me with your brilliant insights while I can still sustain it."
"That sure told me … Then you've never heard of block transfer computation, I take it?"
"I have heard of it, of course. It is a myth: alchemy for programmers. The concept of creating actual space-time events from pure mathematics is–"
"Right, a 'myth' that once just happened to save this whole universe from boiling to death under the power of its own entropy, but let's leave that lovely story for another time. If you've got a better explanation for how that prayer drove off the Dun Shie, I'd be delighted to hear it."
"You mean the chant is a code, like the Movellans use in their computers?" asked Tamril, still very self-conscious that he probably understood these concepts less than any of them, and how ironic, then, that I was the one to actually use this code. "But it doesn't actually need a computer to work? It just … works on reality itself?"
"Yes, more or less," answered the Doctor, with an impressed air that came as a great relief to him. "Perhaps even the whole Song of Adala is, but if that is the case, it couldn't work on computers anyway. Block transfer computations need living, organic minds to act as their processors, so bearing in mind your career plans, Tamril, I really wouldn't let the godlike power go to your head. Being able to warp physics and create objects out of thin air may sound like a nice party piece, but it's not worth reducing your mind to a glitchy, digital mush."
"Doctor … how is that any different from magic? I have been working hard to shed the primitive superstitions I was raised with. Was I wrong to do so?"
"I wouldn't say that, although maybe some of them bear closer examination, and the reason block transfer computation isn't magic – as I'm sure our friends here will appreciate – is that it's logical. It can be analysed, replicated, understood, albeit only with the utmost skill and patience."
"A level of skill no-one on this planet has, Doctor," pointed out Keryn. "Even assuming they stumbled upon this legendary science by remarkable coincidence–"
"Which I never said they did, and I certainly don't believe, but please continue."
"Thank you," she replied, coldly. "I merely wanted to point out that even if Tamril's prayer is an executable program of some kind, it could not possibly contain enough data to conjure up a forcefield, or even a simple electromagnetic pulse."
"Granted, but it could be enough to trigger an effect in a larger system, perhaps? One that's running all the time, round the clock, matins and evensong … should I spell it out for you?"
"The Ecclesium itself?" she asked, sceptically.
"Why not? Practically half the population of Mondever is ordained, and even those who aren't know the prayers by rote. Even in the dead of night, I'm guessing there must be no shortage of cloistered brothers and sisters who are praying in their cells, perhaps that very same verse."
"All very intriguing, Doctor, but somewhat of a wild theory at best."
"Well, it's more fun that way … as you obviously don't think," he added, out of consideration for the perplexed and stony expressions that confronted him.
"All that concerns me right now is the survival of my troops," declared Keryn. "Abstract theories such as this are all very well, but they will gain us no logical advantage."
"You know, I think you've done yourself down," he replied, sardonically. "I think you fit in all too well with your comrades … but if you want my advice on how best to stay alive, I'd recommend getting off this planet and leaving it in peace. You can take Tamril and others like him, if that's what they want," he suggested, possibly out of compassion for the young man's pained expression, "but for those who prefer the status quo, just leave well alone. There's obviously a delicate balance here. Who knows, by disrupting the social structures you might even overrun the place with Dun Shie and assorted nasties, if that's what's been keeping them in check."
"Do you suppose the Daleks will be more delicate in their approach than us?"
"Keryn, let's be honest: the Daleks here are screwed every which way. You saw those two sorry husks back there. They clearly bit off way more than they could chew when they came here, and who's to say you're not next on the hit list? Anyway, the place is obviously unhealthy for machines. Wouldn't it be better to settle somewhere where you're less likely to be on the blink?"
"We are not walking vacuum cleaners, Doctor," she said, reproachfully. "We are the greatest achievement in biomimetic engineering ever recorded, just as sophisticated … Correction: more sophisticated in our mental and metabolic processes than humans or Gallifreyans."
"That's debata–"
"Be that as it may, I think you must concede that if all electrical activity was hopelessly disrupted here, then your nerves and synapses would be 'on the blink' as surely as ours would be. Commodore Akylah has studied the phenomenon, and I am sure will pleased to discuss it with you. I, however, would prefer to be on the move. Are you fit to ride, Lilka?"
"Yes, Commander," she replied, while stretching her limbs and turning her head, her movements fluid if a little sluggish, "as long as we do not need to gallop. If speed is of the essence, I suggest leaving me here. I can make my own way back after first light."
"That will not be necessary. Come with me, and we will make immediate preparations. Guard him, Tamril," she ordered, handing her pistol to the conscript, who accepted it with a look of great reluctance, which she did not miss. "Do not worry. I changed the magazine. The ammunition in this one is only gas-propelled tranquilliser darts. Much as I could often wish him quiet, I do not wish him dead. In any case, this will not take long," she declared, and marched off to the further end of the crumbling worship-house where the troopers were tending the horses, immediately followed by Lilka. The Doctor watched them depart with a weary, frustrated look, while Tamril could only regard his 'prisoner' with a guilty one.
"Shame, really," said the Doctor, when the two androids were at a fair distance. "Keryn's become a real hard-ass of late. Rigours of command, I suppose, though I never did get along with the military mindset. On the bright side, maybe I've found the perfect blind date for Lethbridge-Stewart as well … Something on your mind, Tamril?" he asked, sympathetically. "Other than the obvious mortal danger and the cosmic horror aspects, that is?"
"Doctor … I don't feel good about any of this," he confessed, miserably. "I misjudged you, betrayed you, but you're a good man. You help your enemies. You helped me."
"Yes, and you saved all our lives, lest you've forgotten. If it wasn't for your chant–"
"I just panicked. I had no idea it would actually work. You were the one who realised what was going on, who made it possible for us to get out of there alive. After all that, and virtually bringing Staff Lilka back from the dead, for me to be holding you captive …"
"Well, what else would I be doing, to be fair? The TARDIS is still in the woods, and I don't suppose those shades will let me get anywhere near it without some serious dismemberment."
"It will be safe to move after first light, Doctor. Every legend of the Dun Shie claims they only come at night, and all that is seen of them in the day are their depredations: the missing people, livestock, even babies: the tithes they pay to the Lords of the Chasm, to avoid being condemned there themselves. That is why some of the peasants say you should leave out food and gifts for them as well, though the Ecclesium disagrees with that."
"And for once, I'd agree with them. I struggle to believe the slicey-dicey wraiths would call off a good evening's mayhem just because someone left out milk and cookies for them … but I don't see where this is going, Tamril. Even if I was confident of operating the TARDIS successfully, my chances of slipping away or outrunning our friends here have got to be pathetically low."
"If I was to help–"
"Right, let me stop you there," he interrupted, forcefully. "Do me a favour, Tamril, and never say anything like that again, okay? Movellans have exceptionally acute hearing, and I don't care to think what your superiors would do if they heard you."
"You think they'd kill me?"
"No. I think they'd revoke both your integration and your conscription, and send you back to your family," he answered, gravely. "What happens to you from that point, I really don't want to think about, never mind have on my conscience. At best, I imagine it would involve you being lectured, chastised, locked away, and generally having your spirit broken until you agreed to some face-saving option such as being quickly married off to one of your father's lesser knights or joining a convent … and that, I reiterate, is the best option I can envisage. No, much as it pains me to say it, you're probably better off as a pseudo-Movellan, given the alternatives."
"But you, Doctor: you wanted no part of this. It seems so unjust."
"That's war for you. I've never seen what makes it the universe's most popular hobby. Still, if the worst comes to the worst, I daresay I'll adapt, but don't go writing me off just yet. This isn't the opportune moment for an inspired getaway, but no-one picks them like I do, and when that moment comes, Tamril, you should watch out," he advised, slyly. "Especially if you've been fully integrated by then. In twelve hundred-odd years, one can learn so many ways to disable an android … non-lethally, of course, but don't be surprised one day if you suddenly find yourself blue-screening on sentry duty, or compulsively walking and talking backwards, or unable to see clearly because someone not a million parsecs away reprogrammed your inbuilt HUD to constantly display a demo of Tetris … and so forth. You might need a spot of debugging after I've given you the slip, but the crucial thing is that you'll be blameless. Unsuccessful, yes, but definitely blameless."
"I pray that I am … and that your confidence is justified," said Tamril, afraid that the Time Lord's cockiness was merely a front to spare his feelings, but grateful for it nonetheless. "Thank you, Doctor. I am honoured to have met you, and may we not get to serve together."
"Likewise, Tamril, on both counts. Still," he added, as a distant, yet horribly evocative screech emanated from the fringes of the forest, that might have been taken as the dying cry of an ekail hawk by someone who didn't know better, "first things first. For now, let's just hope that we all survive long enough for it to even become an issue."
Dawn was breaking behind the citadel when the riders made their approach, the blue glare casting the silver spires, domes, and turrets into stark silhouette, save for the occasional dazzling glint off their smooth metallic walls. Tamril never ceased to find the sight awe-inspiring, but he was not surprised when the Doctor, riding alongside him, expressed quite different sentiments:
"Oh well. I suppose it kind of looks the part," he commented, lackadaisically, "if you look past all of the glaringly obvious thruster modules, ladar antennae, shield generators, missile launchers, and so on, that is. If they'd only thought to drape a few homespun tapestries over the solar cells and maybe twine some leafy vines around some of the communication masts, it might look more like a faery queen's castle and less like–"
"The superstructure of a Movellan capital ship, were you about to say?" interrupted Tamril, dryly, managing to both silence the Time Lord and raise one of his eyebrows. "I have lived and worked in it these six months past, Doctor, and I can assure you, it was impressive enough to those of us who saw it descend from the heavens, upon the base of a great pyramid that then buried itself point-first in the earth, leaving only this silver citadel on the surface."
"Meh. I've seen better atmospheric manoeuvres. A Jagaroth ship taking off, for example. Now there's a sight for–"
"If, Doctor, you could curb your desire to show off for the moment," advised Keryn, pointedly, as she raised a hand and the riders drew to a halt. "Before we proceed any further, I need to signal ahead." She reached for her belt pouch, took out a small mirror, clasped it flat against her palm, then held it up at an angle to catch the dawn rays. As she swivelled her wrist in small, rapid, flicking motions, the mirror flashed a message in semaphore, that was soon answered by a distant, flickering light upon one of the highest towers. After a few seconds of this silent communication, the light on the tower went dark, and Keryn gave the order for them to proceed.
The ship had buried itself upon a sandy plain near the edge of the Tarsys Ridge, close enough that its towers overlooked the escarpment and commanded an extensive view of the Madian Steppes. The terrain was soft but easy-going, with only a few scattered bulló trees that cast long and striking shadows across the pale ground with their slender, grey barks and their fat, purple leaves. Only a few minutes elapsed before they passed through the outer perimeter stockade and into a wide courtyard, where various wooden outbuildings such as archery ranges, storehouses, and stables had been erected. Only a few Movellans were present, most of the tasks in this area being handled by conscripts who were considered trustworthy enough to work outside the citadel with minimal supervision. I had that option, once, recalled Tamril, but he had been one of the few to turn it down. For all of its cold, sterile elegance, he found the alien ship to be a source of endless fascination.
A figure who was practising at one of the archery ranges caught his eye, striking him as curious on several counts. Is she a conscript, or one of them? Maybe a volunteer, like me. She doesn't look lowborn, but I've never met her before. He kept his eye on the archer as they reached the stables and dismounted, and stole glances while he was helping the other troopers unload the weapons and equipment from the saddle-bags so that the horses could be given to the care of the stablehands. She was not dressed in the standard, off-white fatigues worn by the conscripts and the lower ranks, but in a clinging, shiny, one-piece suit like the commander's, although without most of the accessories: her only accoutrements were white, silver-edged plastic boots, and a silver belt upon which a phylactery was mounted. She must be a Movellan, then, but why in Adala's name doesn't she look like the others? Her hair, in contrast to both the silver braids worn by the citadel officers and the bald scalps of the field troops, was a strangely ordinary, black, shoulder-length bob, although slightly too perfect in cut and texture to pass as natural. The face it framed was also remarkably different to the dark, statuesque, kohl-accented faces of her comrades: it was pale; with large, brown eyes; a small, upturned nose; and heart-shaped, pastel-pink lips that all in all ought not to have been a displeasing sight, yet somehow were. There was something in her fixed, intent manner and her look of concentration that he found ineffably wrong, for all that he knew Movellans had a superhuman capacity for dedication. It's too … personal, almost as if she doesn't care about hitting the target so much as the very unlikely hope that she might make it bleed. After almost a minute of staring at her, on-off, when he could spare the attention, she finally met his eyes, which served to confirm his impression and increase his confusion. That was more than just disapproval. That was … hate. He quickly looked away from her and focused on helping the others with renewed enthusiasm, as they unloaded the blasters and packed them and their magazines separately into lockable steel cases, while the conscript labourers took charge of the bows, quivers, and mêlée weapons. Satisfied that all was proceeding smoothly, Commander Keryn stepped away from the group and looked around the courtyard, wearing a faint frown.
"Where is the officer of the watch?" she asked, as a general remark, and then turned her attention to the woman at the archery range. "Ellaria? Where is Lieutenant Dulac?"
"What do you ask me for, machine?" replied the woman, treating the commander to a look that was no friendlier nor any more respectful than the one she had given Tamril. The Doctor had noted the exchange too, and watched the proceedings with avid curiosity. Does he see her as a possible ally for his escape attempt? Rather him than me …
"I ask merely because you are out here, Ellaria," answered Keryn, with slightly forced patience. "I do not suppose you would have been allowed to leave the ship without an officer in attendance, therefore it is logical to suppose you have seen him. I fail to see any purpose in needlessly obstructing–"
"My apologies, Commander," called out a loud, but mannered voice. Tamril turned to see a man in a uniform similar to Keryn's, marching towards them from one of the larger outbuildings. "I was supervising the repairs of the commodore's carriage. She anticipates that the betrayal and arrest of Lord Palomar will have wide-ranging repercussions with the Alliance, therefore to manage the situation as best as possible she proposes to ride to Montcarmille in order–"
"Not in front of the conscripts, please … nor the prisoner," added Keryn, with a quick, meaningful glance at the Doctor. "Walk with me, Lieutenant. Finish things off here, Lilka, then report to maintenance and have your injuries properly seen to."
"Implying that I did a total hack job?" asked the Doctor, affronted.
"By no means, Time Lord. You did a commendable if crude field repair, under the circumstances, but I would nevertheless prefer it if the staff sergeant did not have to spend the rest of eternity looking like a Blue Peter project."
"They still show that? In the 51st century, on Kaldor?"
"All over human space. Indeed, the Company is strikingly unoriginal in its viscast concepts. They are forever mining the distant past to disguise their own cultural impoverishment. One gathers they have even sunk low enough to propose a season themed around early 21st century reality show revivals, although who knows whether that will ever come to anything?"
"Not soon, I hope, but I'd keep an eye on your TV guides if I were you. Especially if anything involving bad wolves is mentioned."
"I will bear that in mind, Doctor," she replied, with polite bewilderment. "Proceed, Lilka," she ordered, exchanging a salute with the NCO before walking away, accompanied by the lieutenant, with whom she continued her conversation at too discreet a distance for Tamril to hear it over the sounds of the ongoing work and the periodic thudding of the arrows into the straw target. He risked another glance towards the archer, and noticed the great profusion of arrows embedded all over the target, some even cracked and splintered where others had caught them dead in the rear. Either she takes her practice very seriously, or she really is trying to work off her anger … unsuccessfully, by the looks of things.
"Well, there's a first," observed the Doctor, now standing alongside him and muttering in a quiet, almost conspiratorial tone. "We all knew they could do cold and snarky, but an honest-to-goodness rude, bitchy, angry Movellan? Not one of the locals, is she … or was she?"
"I don't know," he answered, examining her face again for as a long as he dared. "I mean, I do recognise some of the other volunteers. She used to be a kitchen maid in Fordeval," he declared, gesturing to one of the troopers who was removing her leather armour and sorting its components onto a movable rack that some conscripts had wheeled up for them. A male trooper was standing close by, doing the same, and Tamril pointed to him next. "He used to be a serf from Capel Dura, one of Sir Emric's vassals. I'd definitely have remembered that archer if she'd been local, but I don't suppose there's any reason I'd know all of the conscripts. They bring them in from as far as Ashquelinn, you know? That's over a hundred leagues away."
"I see, and of course further away from the war than down here. That might explain why she looks less than thrilled to be here … but then why become a volunteer? Present company excepted, the Movellans are only integrating willing volunteers, right?" he asked, with all due scepticism that Tamril only wished he had the knowledge or the conviction to contradict.
"As far as I know," he answered, his voice troubled and, as he realised to his dismay, lowered to match the secretive tone of the Doctor's. No. I am committed now. I will not conspire against my comrades-in-arms. As in everything we do, there must be a logical reason for it. "I'm sorry, Doctor, but I must help the others," he quickly declared, and for want of anything more purposeful to do took up a cloth and a bottle of neatsfoot oil, and assisted the conscripts who were polishing the leather. Although he attempted to focus on his task, he could not help but notice as the Doctor sidled away, in the direction of the archery ranges. A brave man, but I sometimes think his curiosity will be the death of him. She certainly looks as if she'd like to be the cause of it.
"Hello … Ellaria, isn't it?" the Time Lord announced himself, though to no immediately promising result: the woman merely shot an acidic look at him then went straight back to her practice. "I think you missed a spot, there," he quipped, gesturing towards the thoroughly pincushioned target, but the woman ignored the attempted levity and reached for another arrow. Finding they were now spent, her face contorted in frustration, and she turned back to her unwelcome companion.
"Do not call me that, human," she hissed at him. "That is the name they gave me. I do not recognise it."
"Ah … sorry. I can well understand."
"Can you?" she asked, contemptuously, although the Doctor chose to ignore her tone.
"I think so. I seem to be on the cards for the same treatment, and much as I'm quite used to alien megalomaniacs wanting to subvert my nature, so far they've had the goodness not to inflict pet names on me as well. You have my deepest–"
"Would it make any difference to you, human, to be changed from one inferior creature into another?" she interrupted, with little genuine curiosity and much venom. The question seemed to stun him for a few seconds, and it left Tamril perplexed as well, but the Doctor soon rallied himself and went on, albeit in a far more guarded tone:
"I think it might, but just for clarity's sake, I'm not human. Not that I'd consider it a term of shame, but I'd prefer 'Doctor,' if you don't mind. And your real name is … ?"
"You are a fool, creature," she declared, while striding up to the target. She continued to speak as she tore arrows out of it, shredding its surface and snapping several of them in the process. "I have no name. Daleks need no names."