Atalanta stopped and folded her arms. “I don’t care what you say or do,” she said flatly. “You can’t make me face that!”
“I told you, you haven’t got a choice,” Xena hissed.
“I’m—I’m with Atalanta,” Ixos put in, his voice much too high. “I’m not going anywhere but back down that road, as fast as I can.”
“It’s—ah, not wise to run from something like that,” Gabrielle said quietly. She was watching the Sphinx and her young captives, head tipped thoughtfully to one side. “I mean, look at those wings. She’d have you before you got five paces.”
“I won’t,” Atalanta said flatly, and sat in the middle of the road. Xena swore a blistering oath and turned to drag her back to her feet; Atalanta struggled, but with little success, as the warrior dragged one arm behind her back and hauled her, kicking and cursing, to her feet.
“Gabrielle,” she said sharply, “hand me that piece of rope.” No reply. “Gabrielle?” She turned; Gabrielle’s bag and staff were on the ground almost at her feet, but Gabrielle was a good twenty paces away, heading purposefully toward the Sphinx, Homer right behind her. “Gabrielle!”
“Be right back,” Gabrielle replied over her shoulder. “Just setting the ground rules. All right?”
“All right,” Xena growled under her breath. “I swear, I’ll—” Atalanta tried to twist away from her, and Xena swore again and shook her, hard. “Settle down,” she said sternly. The huntress sat still, panting and staring blankly. Ixos gazed down at her, then glared at the warrior.
“You didn’t have to shake her so hard,” he said evenly.
“Shut up and sit down next to her. There’s enough to worry about here and now—you’re not going to distract me.” She glared him into submission, waited until he’d settled on the road and taken the girl into his arms, then turned back to check on Gabrielle.
This time I just might wring her neck, and— She sighed, and some of the anger went out of her. Someone was going to have to do the talking here. And Gabrielle hadn’t misjudged the size of those wings. The Sphinx could probably have picked her off even from this far away in the blink of an eye. Still, those are eagles’ wings. Eaglelike. There wasn’t an eagle alive with wings like that. None now, at least, she reminded herself grimly. But eagles were day birds. Maybe, if they could stall this contest long enough, it would be possible to grab the girls. Lions hunt at night, she reminded herself gloomily. If Gabrielle had just hung around long enough for them to come up with a plan! I wonder what she’s saying up there.
At her feet, Atalanta moaned and stirred in Ixos’ arms. “Keep her quiet, and keep her down there with you,” Xena said evenly. “Or I’ll flatten her again. Got it?” Silence. She looked down at him; he eyed her angrily but finally nodded. “Good.”
“Wait!”
Gabrielle turned to glance over her shoulder; she frowned slightly.
“Homer, you shouldn’t be here. I mean, if she decides—well, you shouldn’t be, that’s all.”
“I have to,” he said. “I’m afraid, yes. But I know how I’d feel if I did nothing, and hid back there, and then if she decided to—”
“No one’s going to get eaten,” Gabrielle put in hastily. “But someone’s got to talk to her and set things up.”
“Talking’s what I do, you said so.”
“I’m not so bad at it myself,” she replied mildly.
“I know.” He managed a faint, shaky smile. “So between us, maybe we can fix things up right.” The smile faded. “I’m not going to go back and leave you alone here.”
“Well, then I’m glad to have you,” Gabrielle said. Sunlight was suddenly warm on her back, and the Sphinx very near indeed. The great beast with a woman’s face stretched and yawned widely; Gabrielle’s jaws ached, and she set her teeth together to keep from yawning herself. Four girls sat in a huddle between the enormous paws, and one of them was crying steadily and hopelessly. Mitradia, who had been whispering something in Nausicaa’s ear, straightened and smiled.
“Oh! I’m so glad to see you, Ga—!”
“I’m glad to see again you, too.” Gabrielle cut her off sharply, then turned a dazzling smile on the Sphinx. “I heard you want to see me. My name’s Atalanta, and there was something about a contest. He wasn’t too clear about it, though, and—”
“Shut up!” the Sphinx snarled. Homer paled, and Gabrielle kept the smile in place with a great effort. “You aren’t Atalanta; even I know she’s a huntress and a runner.” Dark green eyes moved beyond Gabrielle to the three people down the road. “That’s Atalanta, the skinny thing.”
“Hey, I’m not so overweight as all that, you know!” Gabrielle protested indignantly. The Sphinx laughed and bared her teeth. Gabrielle took an involuntary step back and said, “All right, I’m not Atalanta. But, you know what? You don’t really want Atalanta.”
“Who says I don’t?” the Sphinx demanded ominously.
“I do. I’m Gabrielle—you’ve heard of me, I’m certain. I’m the personal bard and soothsayer for Xena—that’s her down there, the, ah, not skinny one with the black hair.”
“Why would I have heard of you?”
“Well—you’ve heard of Xena, haven’t you?” The Sphinx growled under her breath, then finally nodded. Gabrielle patted her chest in a self-congratulatory gesture. “So, I’m the reason you’ve heard about her. She has an adventure, rights a wrong, saves a village, rescues a child or two, slays an ogre—and I cast it into iambic pentameter—or whatever form fits it best; some adventures don’t fit well with iambic pentameter . . .” Her voice faded as the Sphinx eased forward and glared directly into her face.
“Why are you here? I sent for Atalanta: I’ve heard of her. She’s famous. When I out-riddle her, everyone will know I’m the greatest of all time!”
“Well,” Gabrielle temporized, “they’ll know you beat Atalanta.” The Sphinx was still staring at her. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she added vexedly. “Makes it hard for me to remember what I’m trying to say to you.”
“You talk too much,” the Sphinx muttered. “Why are you here? I won’t ask you again!”
“Here? Ah . . . here! Because you may not have heard of me—or my very famous companion here.” She indicated Homer with a deep bow and a flourish of her arm. “But we’ve certainly heard of you. Why, there probably isn’t a bard in all the land who wouldn’t be honored to engage in a contest with you!”
“Some have,” the Sphinx replied meaningfully; she gazed into the distance and a smirk turned the corners of her mouth. “Some of them were fairly tasty, too.”
“Nice to hear that,” Gabrielle muttered. “Well, anyway, since you want me to come to the point: Atalanta’s a runner; she doesn’t know a riddle from a—from a—well, she’s no good at them. Now, I’m one of the best, and this—well, there isn’t anyone greater at riddles than Homer. You’ve heard of him, of course,” she added. “He’s the king’s bard, the bard of all Athens.” The Sphinx gave her a confused look. Homer opened his mouth to protest, and Gabrielle stepped on his foot. “King Theseus,” she explained. The confused look didn’t change. “Of course, before that, he was bard to King Menelaus—and Queen Helen.”
“I’ve heard of them. They’re in Sparta,” the Sphinx said. “I left Sparta years ago; not enough travelers.”
“Well—sure,” Gabrielle replied. Doesn’t even know Helen left Menelaus for Paris, or that she didn’t come back! She filed the thought for later examination and went on. “Well, the thing is, now instead of a girl who doesn’t know the first thing about riddling, you’ve got two experts—not as good as you are, of course, I’m sure, but still, we’re about as good as it gets. Right, Homer?”
“Right,” he echoed faintly, and eased his foot from beneath hers.
Gabrielle turned back to the Sphinx, who was showing signs of restlessness. “So, my question is, why should you settle for winning a contest against someone like Atalanta, when you could best the two greatest bards in all Greece?”
“Hmmmmm.”
“Keeping in mind, too, that if you eat Atalanta when she loses, there isn’t that much there to eat.”
“Good point,” the Sphinx conceded. She eyed Gabrielle sidelong. “No one deliberately sets out to be eaten. You’re planning to trick me!”
“No way,” Gabrielle said firmly. “I think too much of your talent and your prowess to do that. An honest bard would never attempt trickery to win a contest. What we’re offering is, we come up with three riddles between us; you come up with three. Best two of three wins it. And—well, you get your choice between us. One gets to take the girls, and he—or she—goes back to Athens to cast the tale of the Great Contest into verse, for all the world to hear in amazement. And the other is—well—” she shrugged. “Lunch. Or dinner.”
Silence. Even the sobbing girl had stopped crying so she could listen. The Sphinx frowned and gazed down the road. “I need to think about this—stay where you are,” she ordered. “Only a fool would try to run.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Gabrielle replied cheerfully.
“She’s lying, your Greatness,” a gritty voice broke in. A dark-haired, ugly man in old leather armor came from somewhere near the creature’s left flank and stopped just short of Gabrielle. She blinked; his face was as scarred as any she’d ever seen, and he was missing most of his left arm. Must be good with the one he’s got left, she thought. “If she’s with Xena, she’s lying. They’re trying to pull something.”
“Be still, or be appetizer,” the Sphinx hissed. He glanced up at her and went quiet, but he stayed right where he was, within sword’s reach of Gabrielle. She ignored him, met Mitradia’s eyes, and winked at the girl, who tried to smile at her, then whispered something in Nausicaa’s ear. The blind princess whispered something back and Mitradia nodded, then returned Gabrielle’s wink. “Probably you are up to something,” the Sphinx went on after a long moment. “Most people are; usually it’s trying to get away from me alive. No one does.”
“Ah,” Gabrielle said. “But if no one does this time, then there’s no one to tell the tale and spread the story of your greatest conquest, is there?” She glanced at the one-armed man and smiled contemptuously. “I suppose you could let him do it, or something—but there isn’t a bard anywhere else in the whole world who could do you justice in Dorian like I can, and Homer’s the absolute master of Ionian.”
“Three riddles each—why three?” the Sphinx demanded.
“What’s the point of one?” Gabrielle countered. “One riddle, you either guess it or you don’t, and bang! It’s all over, isn’t it? This way, you’ve got something—a story worth telling and a contest worth participating in.”
“Three,” the Sphinx said thoughtfully. “All right. We’ll do this your way.” She smiled; Gabrielle tried to swallow past a very dry throat. “I like your looks.”
“Ah—thanks!” She paused. “I think. Are you ready to get going on this now?”
“It’s nearly sundown. And you’ve probably already chosen your riddles. You think to best me by trickery, don’t you?”
“Hadn’t even occurred to me,” Gabrielle said.
“Hah! We’ll begin when the sun reaches the tops of those trees tomorrow. Don’t think of escaping tonight, any of you,” she added pointedly, “or I break my fast on very young meat. I hope that’s not a riddle beyond your grasp.”
“Nope—got the idea. I don’t suppose you’d let them come sleep with us, or—anything like that?” Gabrielle’s voice trailed away as the Sphinx bared very sharp teeth. “I was afraid you’d feel that way about it. Well, then, I guess we’ll see you in the morning.” She looked at Mitradia, who managed a shaky smile before backing cautiously between the creature’s paws, drawing Nausicaa with her, as the Sphinx muttered something Gabrielle couldn’t quite catch. The one-armed brute scowled at her for one more long moment, then turned on his heel and went back the way he’d come. Homer tugged at Gabrielle’s sleeve, and bowed to the Sphinx—her mouth quirked in amusement. Gabrielle backed away, turned, and walked down the road, Homer at her side.
“Beloved Calliope, just let me keep my knees from buckling until we get back to the others,” he mumbled. Gabrielle squeezed his hand.
“You did really well—really and truly well. I’m proud of you,” she said quietly. “Don’t walk any faster; we don’t want her thinking we’re scared.”
“Aren’t we?”
“Well, we don’t want her thinking it. I’ve got to talk to Xena; I think I have an idea.”
Light was fading rapidly in the trees around them; Xena was on one knee, rummaging through Gabrielle’s pack as Gabrielle and Homer came up, skirting Ixos, who still sat in the middle of the road, Atalanta in his arms. Her eyes were still tightly closed, but her lips were moving—steadily cursing, from the looks of things, Gabrielle thought. The old hunter looked up at her, rolled his eyes, then looked away. Xena shoved the pack aside, got to her feet, folded her arms across her chest, and turned toward her traveling companion. That look, Gabrielle thought nervously. The silence stretched. “Ah,” she managed finally, and to her surprise, her voice sounded almost normal. “Ah, I think we got everything set up all right; no surprise we couldn’t get the girls back over here, but I did try.”
Xena looked at her for a very long moment. Finally, she sighed faintly and said, “I’m still trying to figure out how it was going to help anyone if you just walked up to her and got eaten.”
“I wasn’t gonna get eaten!” Gabrielle protested. “No one’s gonna—”
“Gabrielle, talking’s what you do. Eating is what she does. Keep that in mind, will you?” Xena spun away and glowered down at the bag. “You have any kind of something to fix for dinner in there? Because somehow I have the feeling game might be a little scarce around here.”
“Good one,” Gabrielle laughed. Xena glanced back at her, and the laugh died an instant death. “I—yeah. It’ll take a while. I didn’t figure on two nights in a row, but I can feed us.”
“Good,” Xena said flatly. “Keep an eye on those two; I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Ahhh—I hope she doesn’t think you’re taking off,” Gabrielle said. “Because—”
“I’m going to scout both sides of the road for firewood,” the warrior broke in. “She’ll be able to see me at all times. You keep our two helpers there under control, all right?”
“Got it,” Gabrielle said. She knelt to rummage through the bag, grumbling as she straightened the contents. A string of dried vegetables and a few hot peppers needed to be untangled from her spare bodice; the shallow cooking pot probably wasn’t very clean, but a surreptitious swipe of her hand cleared the worst of the grit, and it really didn’t smell too bad. Water might be a problem. Guess I didn’t think of everything up there. Well, it would have taken someone twice as good at talking as she was, to have gotten everything in. Everything caught up to her between one breath and another, and she had to stuff her hands between her knees to keep them from shaking.
“Gabrielle?” Homer leaned over her shoulders. She managed a smile for him. “Everything all right?”
“As close as it’s going to get under the circumstances,” she said brightly. “Think you can stand my cooking two nights in a row?”
“My father used to cook for me. I can eat anything. Almost anything,” he amended carefully. “Except maybe those salty, hairy little fish some bakers put on their flat bread along with the rounds of dried sausage and the goat cheese before they bake it.”
“Anchovies?” Gabrielle’s nose wrinkled. “No one really eats those on flat bread, do they? Actually,” she added thoughtfully, “I guess if there was enough cheese to hide the taste, I could . . . Well, anyway, it isn’t anything like that. More soup. Provided we can find water. Guess I should’ve asked her.”
“She probably has a mind above such mundane matters,” Homer said. “But if Ixos knows this area, then he’ll know where water is. If—” He swallowed. “If I go for water, and I have a bucket in hand, surely she won’t think I’m trying to run for it.”
“You’re the world-famous bard Homer,” Gabrielle reminded him. “World-famous bards don’t run away.” She suddenly caught at her head with both hands; her eyes closed. “Oh! Oh!”
Homer eyed her anxiously “Gabrielle? Are you all right?”
“I—I can see it!” she gasped, then shook her head and blinked at him. “I almost could. Ohhhh. My head aches. Um—what’s a catalog of ships?”
“A—?” He blinked at her, his jaw hanging. “A what of ships?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “but it’s important. It—somehow, it’s part of your legend.”
“My—legend?” he echoed.
“I don’t know,” Gabrielle whispered, and let her eyes close again. She could see it so clearly, line upon line, verse upon verse; children in odd, bright clothing seated in pale-walled rooms on hard wooden benches, other children staring at black walls covered in white squiggles that must be writing, reciting lines. Lines he wrote. How wonderful. She managed a smile for the wide-eyed, wary Homer, and shrugged.
“What are you talking about?” he asked finally. “Was that a—a vision? You never said you have visions.”
“Sometimes I do. I think. You know how visions are,” she added with another shrug. “They don’t always tell you anything you can use—or tell it to you straight.”
“I don’t know anything about visions, except what the tales tell me,” Homer whispered. “Catalog of ships—I’ll remember that.”
“Well, I hope it’s something useful.” She got to her feet, the string of dried vegetables dangling from one hand and the pot from the other as Atalanta shoved free from Ixos’ arms and tried to struggle to her feet. Gabrielle stared briefly at her hands, then shoved the pot and stew starter toward Homer, caught up her staff, and closed the distance between her and Atalanta in a bound. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” she said.
“Wouldn’t what?” Atalanta snapped. “Wouldn’t try to keep from being turned into that creature’s—next meal? I suppose you look forward to it as a new experience! Forgive me if I’m not as open-minded as you are!”
“I wasn’t thinking about that so much,” Gabrielle said. “I was thinking more about those six girls up there; one of them was crying when I got there, and still crying when I left.”
“Crying doesn’t prove anything, and it doesn’t get you anywhere,” Atalanta replied sullenly.
“That isn’t true,” Gabrielle said. “It releases pain; it—well, it does a lot of things. Just because it didn’t soften your father doesn’t mean it’s a useless activity.”
“How dare you!” the huntress demanded furiously.
Gabrielle shook her head and dropped down cross-legged onto the road. Ixos reclaimed his grasp on his ward, who gave him a black look but subsided in his embrace. “Atalanta—I’m sorry. I don’t like shoving myself into other people’s private affairs, it embarrasses everyone, including me. And obviously, you.” There was a long silence. “Look, you’ve fooled everyone around you for years. Castor and Pollux, Meleager—all those guys on the boar hunt had you figured for this really tough little thing, didn’t they?”
Atalanta stared at her for some moments, then turned away. “They thought—they said they thought—that I was the hardest, bravest female they’d ever met,” she said finally.
“Fine. You fooled a bunch of young male would-be heroes. You know, they can be both the hardest and the easiest guys in the whole world to fool—they’re all so concerned with their own male thing, the ego, hiding their own nerves, making sure the other guys see them in the bravest possible way. At the same time, they’re all so scared someone else is gonna show ’em up. A girl like you—a genuine girl hero—shows up and demands to be part of the party, and has the weapons and the skill to back up the demand, half the time they’re gonna be scared silly a mere girl’s gonna show them up, and the other half they’ll be wondering how they’re gonna—ah—gonna—well, you know.”
Atalanta’s mouth quirked. “Virgin huntress,” she said quietly, then giggled. “Oddly enough, that part’s still true.”
Ixos blushed painfully. “Atalanta! I should hope it was! You’re unwed, after all, and—and dedicated to—”
“To Athena,” Atalanta put in gravely. “Papa, I—I think Gabrielle and I need to talk a little. I’m sorry,” she added. “Uncle Nenny, everything—I’m not trying to hurt you—”
“Princess, it’s all right,” he said at once. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“It was my fault. If I hadn’t come up with this mad scheme, Nenny’d still be alive and both of you planning your next—next hunt.” Her eyes filled with tears; she swore angrily and blotted them on the backs of her hands. “But remember what you both said, just before I left you. That I needed a—another woman to talk to? Not things like—like that—but—just to talk?” Her color was high; so was Ixos’. “Please, Papa. I’ll come find you in a little.”
“It’s all right, Princess,” he replied. “I’ll be right here.” He sighed faintly and mumbled under his breath, “I haven’t anywhere else to go, after all. Not now.”
Atalanta got stiffly to her feet and blotted her eyes once more. “He won’t survive this,” she whispered. “And it’s my stupid, stupid fault. Poor Nenny was half-blind the past year or so, and—”
“You can’t take responsibility for anyone but yourself,” Gabrielle broke in firmly. Atalanta blinked tear-starred lashes, then shook her head. Gabrielle insisted: “I mean it. I left behind a village, a father, a mother, a younger sister, a betrothed—to follow Xena. What if because of that, because I wasn’t there, something awful would happen to them? I could have thought of it that way. Just as maybe you should’ve thought about what would happen if you persuaded those two old men and a bunch of stupid, bored village boys to help you out. But those boys had the choice of saying no, and so did your—so did Neneron and Ixos.”
“They never said no to me, all my life,” Atalanta broke in tearfully. “I knew that, and acted on that knowledge.”
“That was still their choice,” Gabrielle said. “Just like it was your choice to become a huntress and a hero. There isn’t one of those little girls up there right now who isn’t resting easier because you’re here to rescue them.”
“Oh, goddess, don’t put a burden like that on me!” Atalanta cried out.
Gabrielle shook her head. “I’m not. You put it on yourself when you chose the path you took. Maybe the goddess did mark you early on, but that doesn’t need to be a horrible burden. Xena’s been marked for that kind of attention by Ares—not my idea of a soulmate. But even so, she hasn’t been kept under his influence, has she?”
Atalanta shook her head furiously and pounded long-fingered fists against the trunk of a nearby tree. She winced and shook them out with care. “Let’s not talk about her right now—all right?”
“Whatever you want. Look, Atalanta, I’m just trying to help. To understand you. Most important, to help you and me—all of us—get those girls home safely.”
“I don’t know what you think I can do,” Atalanta whispered. “You’ve seen me—at my very best,” she added bitterly. “You know I’m no more a hero than—than that Cyclops is.”
“Well,” Gabrielle objected mildly, “he might be a hero to someone. Maybe even to the little guy traveling with him, who knows? Thing is, all it takes sometimes is the look: you had that right from the start. Put the appearance on and people will believe, because they want to believe. You can do it. You’ve already proved you can.”
“I can’t—not here.”
“Of course you can.” Gabrielle laughed suddenly and spread her arms wide; Atalanta eyed her tearily. “Look, if Homer—who’s never been allowed to so much as blink at danger—and I can face off with a nasty, mythological, immortal being who has a nasty taste for raw humans, and come away with the upper hand, are you gonna tell me someone as well trained with weapons as you are can’t at least pick up her javelin case and look heroic? To please a captive—’scuse me, bad choice of words—audience?”
“Oooooh!” Atalanta wrinkled her nose and suddenly began to giggle. For the first time since Gabrielle had seen her, the huntress looked, and acted, like a girl only a year or so short of full womanhood. “That was awful! Now I know why I don’t keep company with a woman bard!”
“Hey!” Gabrielle grinned. “If I had a choice of bards like that boy you had in Athens! Well—”
A strong voice interrupted her. “You’d probably lose your—ah—your ability to occasionally view the future, wouldn’t you?” Xena dropped a loose load of firewood to the road; a rope-bound bundle of kindling followed. The sound of wood rattling onto the dry, hard surface echoed from tree to tree, then finally died away. “We gonna eat sometime tonight?” she added dryly.
“You see any water out there?” Gabrielle countered as dryly. Xena eyed her for a long moment, sent her eyes toward the huntress, then finally shrugged.
“Small spill over a decent length of stone. How much you need?” She took the shallow pot Gabrielle thrust at her. “How long’s it gonna take to cook this?”
“Full dark!” Gabrielle shouted after her. “Or longer, depending on how long it takes you to bring me a pot of water.”
“Your humble servant,” the warrior replied sarcastically. “You think only the Sphinx is hungry,” she added as she vanished down the darkened roadway.
“I know she is,” Gabrielle mumbled to herself. Can’t believe I did that—not only confronted a bored and hungry carnivore but told her I’d make a better lunch than Homer would. . . . Homer! Suddenly, she realized that her vision sense was talking to her—not only talking, but demanding she listen. It was about the war for Helen, of all things. I was there; I talked to Helen, fought Menelaus’ warriors, saw the Horse firsthand—but I was too close to it all, including poor Helen. I wouldn’t mind telling Xena’s part of that story, if she’d let me. Homer’d do such a wonderful job of the rest of it. Find the time, if you aren’t on tomorrow’s menu, to tell him the whole story.
Gabrielle shook herself and got to her feet; Atalanta was eyeing her curiously. “Well, never mind. I just—act like you aren’t afraid, for those poor girls up there. Who knows, it might even stick to you.”
“I don’t believe it,” Atalanta said flatly, but a small, embarrassed smile tugged at her mouth. “But—all right. I’ll try.”
It took time to get the fire to burn hot, then die down enough so she could shove the pot into a sheltered corner. Wind blew steadily down the road, coating everything in dust. Gabrielle scooped out a small spoonful, tested a tuber. “Just about,” she promised.
Xena sighed faintly. “Gonna be full dark before it’s ready, right?”
“Sorry. It’s the wind, you know.”
“Not your fault.” Without warning, she leaped to her feet, her eyes flashed, and she stepped onto the road. Half a dozen men were coming toward them, the Sphinx at their back. They halted in a ragged line. The Sphinx sat on her haunches. Atalanta froze; the branch she was shoving into the fire trembled briefly, then steadied as she drew a deep breath and positioned it. Ixos edged closer to her. Homer, who had fallen asleep moments earlier, sighed faintly and rolled onto his side, away from the light.
“Great,” Gabrielle murmured. “Something to block the wind, finally!” Atalanta cast her a startled glance across the flames, then clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle something that might have been hysterical laughter. Gabrielle settled the pot more firmly, dropped the spoon on a warm, flat stone next to the coals, and turned to see what was going on.
On the road, Xena stood very still, her eyes moving from one shadowy figure to another. “You might at least make some light,” she said finally. “I like to see who I’m talking to.”
“Light,” the Sphinx rumbled. One of the men crouched at her feet and began to fumble with flint and tinder; moments later a torch spluttered and caught. And then a second, and a third. He passed one to the man at each end of the line, and kept the last for himself. Xena took a step forward and smiled.
“Well, well. Old home week, isn’t it? Philimos. Kodro. And—how nice.” She didn’t look the least bit pleased. “It’s my old friend Zakon. What’s left of him.” She looked up to meet the Sphinx’s eyes. “There’s a purpose to all this? And where are the girls?”
“They’re safe—and warm, and fed. But they aren’t your concern. He is.” The creature gestured with her chin. Gabrielle squinted against a sudden swirl of smoke as the one-armed man in grubby fighting leathers took a step forward. “He tells me you’re the one responsible for his . . . condition.”
“He thought he knew more than me about how to take a ridge,” Xena countered softly. “I don’t put up with that kind of insubordination from common soldiers, not when it costs me time and men. I wager you don’t either.”
“I told you she’d have a lie ready,” Zakon said smugly.
“Shut up, Zakon,” Xena snarled. The Sphinx rumbled ominously and two of the torch holders paled.
“He’s not your underling anymore, warrior. He’s mine—and I take care of what’s mine. He says he wants vengeance. . . .” She was abruptly silent; Xena was laughing.
“Vengeance!” she managed finally. “Zakon, you never did have much for brains! I could easily have killed you back in camp that day. You couldn’t get near me, even with two good arms!”
“I’m bored at the moment,” the Sphinx said. “Very bored.” The woman’s face looked bored; as Xena eyed her sidelong, one vast eyebrow went up. “You know how these things are,” she added in mock apology. “When there’s nothing to see or do—you want to eat.”
“You do,” Xena echoed flatly. Her gaze moved to Zakon, who was smirking broadly.
“I do,” the Sphinx replied. “Of course, I don’t doubt you could simply take him the way things are. But if we evened them somewhat . . .”
Gabrielle was on her feet and next to Xena in one smooth movement. Xena cast her a sidelong glance and muttered, “Get back over there; I’m really gonna be hungry after I get done with this fool.”
“It’s cooking all by itself,” Gabrielle said out of the corner of her mouth, then addressed the Sphinx. “Ground rules again!” she said brightly. “I mean—I can see your point, but how do you plan to even things out? Because if you—ah—cut her arm off, then it isn’t even any more, not if she’s bleeding and all that.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” the Sphinx said thoughtfully, and snarled wordlessly at Zakon, who was trying to protest. “All right. Suggestion?”
“Easy. Tie one hand behind her back,” Gabrielle said promptly.
“Right hand,” Zakon demanded.
“I could take you any time, either hand,” Xena purred. The Sphinx looked from one to the other, then flopped bonelessly onto the road, human chin resting on enormous paws, and sent her eyes in Gabrielle’s direction.
“Do it,” she ordered.
“Do it—right! You bet. Be right back,” Gabrielle added. She scurried across the road and knelt to fumble in her pack. There was a slight delay as she struggled with the knots on Nausicaa’s length of rope. “I swear I just put a simple over-and-under in this thing,” she grumbled. It finally came loose, and she scrambled back onto the road. Zakon stepped in front of her.
“Wait a minute!” he demanded loudly. “I want to see this bit of rope, make sure it isn’t fake or something!”
“Oh, sure,” Gabrielle retorted. “I always carry a bit of magic rope around with me. Doesn’t everyone?” She held it out, let him tug at it. “Want to watch me tie it, too?” she asked sweetly. He probably would have said yes, but one of the men behind him broke into raucous laughter.
“Hey, Zakon!” another jeered. “Thought you said you could take her with your hand behind your back! What’s the matter? Scared?”
“Just making sure it’s all done right,” he shouted back. With a sour glance at Gabrielle, who was unsuccessfully biting back a grin, he slapped the rope aside and stepped back to draw an ugly, knobby mace from his belt. He eyed it with satisfaction. Gabrielle turned away and looked up at Xena. “I hope I didn’t mess things up for you.”
“You did fine.” Xena squeezed her shoulder. “I liked your suggestion a lot better than his.” And as Gabrielle looked at the rope, then eyed her companion uncertainly, Xena put her right arm behind her back, turned so it was facing Gabrielle, and wiggled her fingers. “Fix it to my sword belt; it won’t go anywhere.”
“It better not!” Zakon yelled. He’d secured the mace and was now testing the air with his sword—a thick-bladed affair with a grip of leather-wrapped metal bands that encircled his hand.
“I told you,” Xena said as the blade sliced the air with a hiss that made Gabrielle wince and nearly drop the rope, “I never did need two hands to take you.”
“Ahhh—” Gabrielle was busy at her back, working a complex wad of knots even larger than the one she’d wrapped around Atalanta’s ankles. “Listen,” she whispered, “I bet you can flatten him in one whack. But—ah—keep in mind, our furry friend there wants to be entertained.”
“I won’t forget,” Xena said quietly. “She wants a show, she’ll get one. Watch your back, and keep an eye on our skittish friends over there, will you?”
“Got it,” Gabrielle said. With one last tug on the rope, she backed up two paces, then turned and headed for the edge of the road. She had barely turned back to watch the fight when Xena’s battle cry cut the night air. Four thugs backed hastily away and the Sphinx sat up, the tips of her wings quivering above her head, her eyes wide and very bright.
Zakon laughed and held his sword at the ready. “You can’t scare me with noise, Xena! Come on—” He stopped short, his mouth hanging open; the warrior had launched herself into a tight double flip that carried her over his head. She made hardly a sound as she landed behind him and whirled around, smacking him hard with the flat of her blade. He howled with pain and outrage, spun around, and slashed where she’d been. Too late. She was already airborne, this time coming down so close to him that her near foot flattened his. He yelled again. “Fight fair! You know I got bad feet!” He started halfway around, then back the other way. Xena was behind him, behind him again, then right in his face, sword between her teeth; her left hand backhanded his blade aside, then came back hard in a ringing slap to his face. He reeled and blinked, tightened his grip on the sword hilt, and with a yell charged her. Xena sidestepped and tripped him as he rushed by. He staggered to regain his footing, blinking dazedly. Xena waved her empty hand in front of his eyes, then backflipped away from him to retrieve the sword she’d let fall to the road. She wasn’t even breathing hard. A corner of her mouth quirked; she seemed to be enjoying herself.
“You’re making a game of this!” he shouted breathlessly.
“You prefer I just stand here and kill you on the spot?” she asked evenly. “You forgot just how good I am, didn’t you Zakon? And how lousy you are?” He swore furiously—and incoherently—and charged straight at her. Xena sidestepped at the last possible moment, gripped his shoulder as he passed, and flipped him onto his back. The air erupted from his lungs in a loud gust. He opened his eyes to see a sword held very steadily, just short of his nose.
“What do you think?” she asked conversationally. “Take your nose off and make you even uglier—if that’s possible? Or maybe just hack off your other arm? You can always fight with your teeth, you know.”
Zakon gasped for air and swore helplessly. “You’re making a game of it! Damn you to Hades, Xena! You think it’s easy finding work as a one-armed fighter?”
“So go be a one-armed goatherd, or a one-armed baker,” she said indifferently. “No one’s forcing you to do this kind of stuff.”
“It’s what I do,” he replied stubbornly. “It’s all I’ve ever done.”
“You won’t be doing it anymore if I kill you here and now, will you?” she asked.
“Or if I do,” the Sphinx put in smoothly. Zakon’s eyes rolled sideways in a vain effort to make out the bulky creature. She didn’t sound very happy, he realized uncomfortably. Not that she ever sounded happy—but this was definitely the other voice.
To his surprise, Xena flipped her sword away from his face, and stepped over him to confront the beast. “He amused you, didn’t he?” she asked. “I think that’s worth letting him go.” A long silence. Men eyed each other sidelong, and the Sphinx stared beyond Xena, her thoughtful gaze fixed on the fallen Zakon, who lay motionless where Xena had left him, lips pressed together and eyes closed.
To his astonishment, the creature began to laugh, a sound like stones falling downhill, but indisputably laughter. His eyes flew open. “Amused,” the Sphinx repeated. “Yes. That was—most amusing, warrior. Kept my mind off food very nicely.” She turned the impassive look back to motionless Zakon. “I’m not hungry now,” she said. “In the morning, I doubtless will be. Go away, now.” Zakon scrambled to his feet, backed warily away from her one slow step at a time, fumbling his sword back into its sheath with a shaking hand, feeling for the mace, which had fallen from his belt. But the sight of both Sphinx and warrior made him decide not to press his luck. When he was beyond the light of the torches and Gabrielle’s fire, he turned and fled. Coarse laughter followed him.
Gabrielle came up to begin working the knots free. The Sphinx watched in silence, but as Xena shook out her right hand and scooped up her sword, the creature rose and stretched massively. Great wings unfurled briefly, then folded back to her tawny sides. “Most amusing,” she repeated. She looked beyond Xena to Gabrielle, who was coiling the length of rope. “I hope tomorrow’s contest is half so amusing. Don’t forget—sunrise, three from you two, three from me, best two of three. And one of you returns to Athens to tell the story. My—ah—choice,” she added, and bared very white teeth.
Gabrielle swallowed, then put on a smile. “How could I possibly forget? I’m looking forward to this—what a terrific contest it’s gonna be!” Xena was eyeing her curiously; she kept her eyes on the Sphinx as the creature turned and sauntered up the road. Her guard backed partway up the road, then turned and followed her. Silence. The Sphinx reached the crest of the road and vanished from sight.
“I’m almost afraid to ask what she meant by that,” Xena said finally. Gabrielle started, blinked, and smiled at her.
“Oh, nothing much, really. Maybe I can tell you about it later. After you eat. Soup’s probably ready.”
Xena’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe you can tell me while I eat. I’d like to know what I’m facing tomorrow, if you don’t mind.”
“Facing—well, sure. Thing is, I’m absolutely starving, and I wager you worked up quite an appetite. The soup’s hot, but it won’t be that good once it cools off, or if it overcooks—”
Xena sighed loudly, silencing her. “Tell me after we eat. Make it good, too,” she added, as she shoved her sword into its sheath, and headed toward the fire.