One more blessed, stunned moment of total silence greeted this terrified outburst, then pandemonium. Gabrielle clutched Homer’s hand and dragged him with her, Arachne trailing, momentarily forgotten in their wake, bundle clutched to her breast. “Come on!” Gabrielle shouted. It took her several long moments to force her way through the crowd, even with Homer’s help. They arrived to find a wide circle of stunned onlookers surrounding the black-clad Stymphe, who was wringing her hands and wailing in a loud, ear-piercing voice. Nearby, in a small clear area of her own, Atalanta was ripping long silver pins from her hair and tossing them in a bag held by a compactly built, sweet-faced young man with a serious expression and crisp black curls. He knelt to fumble through the bag, then handed her a narrow belt holding two pearl-handled knives, followed by a slim case of slender, short spears. Once those were in place, he shook out a finely tanned, short boarskin cloak, gave her a horn bow, and got up to fasten the enameled quiver to her shoulder and snug the cloak over all. Atalanta paid little heed to him, other than to move as he directed so he could tighten the straps on the quiver; she was too busy glaring at Xena, who stood, arms folded and eyes pale with fury, between her and Stymphe.
“Don’t fret so, old woman,” Atalanta finally shouted. Stymphe snuffled loudly and stared at her, blinking aside tears. “I already told you, I shall rescue those children, at whatever cost to myself!” Stymphe blotted her withered cheeks, shook her head, and burst into tears once more.
Xena took a step forward and held up a warning hand when Atalanta would have said something else. “You won’t go alone, not for something like this,” she said flatly.
“I don’t take company,” Atalanta snapped in reply. “And I wouldn’t have your company at any cost. I travel alone!”
“You don’t have a choice, sprinter,” Xena said evenly. “There are children out there—six young girls, if I heard right. At least ten men holding them. Armed men. And if anyone knows why, they haven’t said. Ten armed men—”
Atalanta laughed, but her mouth was hard, and so were her eyes. “Small odds,” she said, and patted the horn bow. Xena shook her head as one of the women began to sob.
“No.” She sent her eyes sideways, toward the miserable woman. Atalanta raised her chin and the corner of her lip. Xena shook her head. “I don’t care about the cost to you. I won’t see you risk the life of a single one of those children, certainly not so you can add to your own glory. Not while I’m around.”
The huntress’s eyes blazed, her hands clenched into tight little fists. “How dare you!”
“I dare.”
Atalanta shook her head. “Stay here, make your noises, Xena. I’m going now, while the trail is still fresh. Don’t bother following me. I can outrun you easily, even after both of my races.”
Xena bared her teeth in a would-be smile. “Not over any distance, you can’t. You’re a sprinter, not a distance runner. Remember last time?” She caught sight of Gabrielle hovering nervously at the edge of the crowd, Homer at her elbow and Arachne peering warily from behind the bard’s back. “Gabrielle, I’m leaving Argo with you! Find out everything you can for me about what children are gone, who took them, anything else that might be useful. Then catch up with us!” She raised her voice another notch as another of the women burst into loud wailing. “Someone—anyone! They went straight up the sand, didn’t they?” One of the mothers bit the side of her hand and nodded. Xena laid a hand on her shoulder and smiled reassuringly. “We’ll do everything we can to get them back safely, and quickly. Try not to worry.” She turned back to Atalanta, who was now glaring at Gabrielle.
“You’re making a circus of this, warrior,” the runner spat. “Why don’t you bring all those shrieking little girls with the ribbons, and a picnic basket while you’re at it?”
“You’re the expert tracker,” Xena countered softly. “Why don’t you get started before the tide comes in and erases what sign we have?” She glanced at Gabrielle. “Don’t be too long, okay?”
Gabrielle had her arm around Stymphe; she cast a wary glance at Atalanta, but the huntress had turned away with a blistering oath. She stalked toward the shoreline—the crowd backed away to give her ample room—and squatted to gaze at the deep wheel marks. Gabrielle’s eyes shifted to a spot just beyond Xena’s shoulder and her mouth twitched nervously. “I can’t ride Argo!”
“You can,” Xena said evenly. “You haven’t any choice,” she added as Gabrielle would have protested again. “Not if you’re going to help me—help us—get those girls back.”
Nausicaa, Gabrielle reminded herself. Her own fears were small compared to what Nausicaa must be going through—torn from her nurse, grabbed by crude men and tossed into a chariot, and unable to see what was happening as she was jolted along at high speed. At least the times I’ve been stuck in one, I could see where I was going. She swallowed, hard. “I can do it,” she said solemnly.
“Good. Find out what you can, then follow. And hurry.”
“I’ll be quick,” Gabrielle promised. Xena nodded, checked her weaponry, and strode after the huntress, who was now staring intently, and rather theatrically, toward the north. Moments later, the two were gone, Atalanta sprinting like a deer, Xena running steadily, a distance back, along the hard-packed sand between rutted wheel marks. She was losing ground as the crowd closed in behind them—but not as much as Gabrielle might have feared.
There wasn’t much Stymphe could tell her, Gabrielle realized after a moment; the woman was elderly, not in good health, and likely in shock from having seen her precious charge snatched by a pack of thugs. Probably her worst nightmare. The other mothers weren’t much more help, except the one who’d been biting her hand to keep from sobbing aloud—and things had happened too quickly for her to have much more to add. “Three black-armored men jumped down from war chariots,” she said, her gaze fixed blankly on Homer as she sought to calm herself and recall what she could. “Expensive chariots and good horses; I wondered, when I saw them, was the king here to watch Atalanta race—or maybe the queen had come. But the men—the armor was hand-me-down, ill-fitting and in poor condition; the men, dirty and ugly, and—and they knew what they were doing. They had dark scarves pulled high on their faces; I couldn’t see much but eyes. Before I could move or even cry out, they had my Euterpe snatched up and tossed into the nearest car; the man who’d grabbed her was in and the driver already lashing the horses up; and they were—were gone, out to hard sand and through the crowd, out of sight before I found my voice.” Homer came forward to pat her arm awkwardly. “I didn’t—didn’t see the rest, just the one car and the men. My Euterpe—” She gulped, and tears ran down her face.
Stymphe came alive in Gabrielle’s grasp; one skinny arm shot out, a wrinkled and trembling finger leveled at the young bard, who stared at it in astonishment. “He! He’s one of ’em! Part of it all! Somehow—! Don’t hush me, young woman,” she added in a hysterical voice as Gabrielle tried to explain who Homer was. “Who wheedled at me to let my princess stay for the last race? What was it to him if she was here or not, except to make another girl for those men to—for those dreadful men to steal? How much of the ransom did they promise you, boy, if you helped them?” Her voice cracked, and she burst into tears once more.
Behind him, Homer could hear angry muttering from the crowd. He spread his arms wide and raised his voice. “It’s not so, I’m from the Academy! An apprentice bard, nothing more! I only wanted to see Atalanta race, and I knew the princess and her companion did as well, that’s all! What girl here would have gone happily home without getting to watch that final race? Of course I pleaded her cause!”
“It’s true!” Gabrielle added in a crowd-hushing, strong voice. Momentary silence. “I know Homer, he’s a fine bard, not a—a—well, he’s certainly not one of those men, or in league with them! He was only doing what he could so Nausicaa could be here to run her own finals, and for the last race. I—gods, Stymphe, where’s Mitradia?” The old woman merely shook her head and tried to gulp back tears. “Did they take both girls?” Gabrielle demanded urgently and gave the old woman a brief, hard shake. “Both?” Stymphe drew a shuddering breath and nodded.
“Both. I—.” She gave Homer a miserable look. “Mayhap he’s no part of those who stole my princess, but he’s at fault all the same! By now, she and I’d be halfway home to her father, and now I’ve got to make that journey alone and tell him—tell him—” Tears puddled in the corners of her eyes and ran down her seamed face.
“Stay here,” Gabrielle ordered. “We’ll get them back. After all,” she added with a would-be encouraging smile, “Atalanta’s the best tracker in all Greece, isn’t she? Of course, she is! And Xena’s—well, I don’t envy those men when she gets done with them.” She turned to Homer and held out her hand. “I guess I’d better get going. Maybe I’ll see you when we get back with the girls.” But he was already shaking his head.
“No, Gabrielle. I’ve never had an opportunity like this; I may never have one again, to pick up such a tale firsthand. I’m coming with you.” Gabrielle hesitated and began to shake her head, but Homer gestured toward Stymphe. “She made me responsible for Nausicaa and Mitradia, you heard her,” he said quietly. “I can’t just—just go back to the Academy and wait for word of them, can I? Besides—” His eyes moved from side to side, taking in those around him. Some of them were still giving him narrow-eyed, suspicious looks.
Gabrielle sighed. I really can’t leave him here—all these frightened women and angry men—and hysterical old Stymphe to urge them on. They’d probably murder him on the spot, once my back was turned. Or have the guards—probably awful Anteros—arrest him. A corner of her mind wondered where the guards were—but there was an uproar of some kind over in the market, the shouting and outraged cries momentarily topping even the noise around her.
No, it wouldn’t be safe to leave Homer. She hadn’t seen him sport so much as a nail knife in the time they’d previously spent together; he’d be utterly helpless. But he doesn’t have any idea how dangerous this journey might become; he only sees the adventure. Now, there was irony. I just hope he won’t get strange about it if I wind up having to protect him. But that wasn’t important at the moment. Getting on Argo, and getting on her way, was. She smiled. “Well—no, I guess that would be a lot to ask. And I wouldn’t dream of trying to keep you from a tale like this. I hope you can ride double.”
“I can do what I have to,” he said evenly, though his eyes were suddenly all pupil, and he eyed the placid Argo with visible misgivings. “We’d—better go.”
“Right.” Gabrielle looked down at the old woman, who seemed about ready to collapse, then searched the crowd. “Arachne?” she said sharply, her voice raised. “Arachne, are you still here?” The weaver, who’d been quietly and slowly retreating, came back into sight, her eyes wide and her color high. “Arachne, I’m sorry about your scarf.”
“Don’t be,” the weaver said softly. Her dark eyes softened with sympathy as she looked at the weeping and frightened mothers. “I heard all of it. Get them back safely, Gabrielle. That’s much more important than a mere scarf.”
Gabrielle nodded and smiled. “We will. But I was hoping I could ask a favor of you. If you’d be a kind soul and stay here with Stymphe until we bring her charges back, I’d really appreciate it. See that she eats something, would you?”
“I’d be glad to help,” Arachne said; she looked very shy as she shifted her bundle to one arm and came forward to take hold of the older woman’s elbow. Probably afraid of another ear-splitting set of hysterics, Gabrielle thought. But Arachne had heart; it won through. Stymphe, isn’t it?” she asked softly. “They’ll bring back your girls. Have you had anything to eat or drink recently?” Alternately cooing soft words and tugging gently at the woman’s arm, she began to ease her away from the racecourse. “It’s all right. We won’t go far, in case they find the girls right away. We’ll stay close by. But you don’t want to make yourself ill for when they come, do you? And don’t you think you should get out of the wind? The sand’s starting to blow.” Two of the mothers followed, arms around each other for support.
Gabrielle turned away and gave Argo a long look, sighed faintly, then pulled herself awkwardly into the saddle, slid her staff into a pocket near her left foot, and tied it down firmly with a pair of loose straps. Having settled herself, she held out a hand to Homer, who eyed the tall horse with visible misgivings. He finally shrugged, slipped his foot into the stirrup Gabrielle had vacated for him, and swung up. She reclaimed the stirrup and kneed Argo, who swung around, paced evenly onto the hard-packed wet sand, then set out at a smooth canter, obliterating his mistress’s bootprints.
Gabrielle eased one white-knuckled hand from the reins to grip Homer’s fingers. “You can ease up just a little!” she shouted to him over her shoulder. “You still won’t fall off, but right now, I can’t breathe!”
“S-s-s-s-orry!” His voice jolted as he bounced; he cautiously shifted his death grip to her skirts and the edge of the saddle. “I’m not really used to riding,” he added in a tight, high voice. “Not sure I like it!”
“Trust me,” Gabrielle replied grimly. “I know just how you feel!” Argo flicked an ear her direction, and she leaned cautiously forward, transferring one hand to the horse’s mane. “You pay attention to the ground in front of you, my four-footed friend,” she ordered. “Not to me!” Behind her, Homer laughed nervously.
Some distance ahead, just as most signs of the city had been left behind, the beach curved westward and narrowed, then narrowed again. The ground to their left sloped up, ever more steeply, until it was a vertical stone precipice dotted with wind-ragged pines; fallen stones, scree, and boulders made footing treacherous. The sun was well behind the ridge, the air around them much cooler than it had been earlier, and only the distant light on the water, well out to sea, let them know it was still the hour short of sunset. Gabrielle sighed, drew Argo to a halt, and freed the stirrup for Homer’s use before she slid from the horse’s back and momentarily braced herself—and her trembling legs—against the saddle. Her voice, for a wonder, sounded normal. Calm. “Look, it’s getting too dark for me to see very far ahead of us, and frankly, if we have to go at a walking pace, I’d rather use my own feet.” She gave Argo a smile, and his warm neck a tentative pat. “Nothing personal, friend,” she added, wrapping the reins around one hand and tugging the staff free with her other. “You okay?” she asked Homer.
Homer groaned. He was leaning against a rock, both hands digging into the small of his back. “If that’s directed to me—I’m alive. I think. Does that count?”
“It counts. You did great, honestly. Help me keep an eye on the tracks, will you? We really need to catch up to Xena and Atalanta before full dark—if we possibly can.” She was bent nearly double, gazing at the sand; at one point she knelt to stare intently at something—he couldn’t make out what, without bending very sore knees, which at the moment didn’t appeal to him at all. Then she got up and peered ahead, tugging at Argo’s rein to get the horse moving again.
Homer indicated the deep wheel ruts that still ran close to what had been the tide line about an hour earlier. “Can’t miss those—at least for now.”
“Or Xena’s bootprints. I guess the narrower ones must be Atalanta’s; she doesn’t leave much of an impression in the sand, either. Still, once we’re off the sand, or it gets darker, I—hmmm.” She mumbled to herself for a moment, then shrugged. “The moon should be an early one tonight, but it won’t be very big. Let’s hope we won’t need to use it.” Momentary silence. “I can hear water—a stream. Good. I could use a drink.”
“Me, too, after that ride. I’m glad you know these things.” Homer hesitated, then moved to take her hand and give her a very warm smile. “Thank you, Gabrielle.”
She blinked. “Me? For what?”
“Possibly saving my life back there. And for letting me have this chance. I—” He gazed down at his hands, and shrugged. “I probably won’t be of much use to you or to them. Xena and Atalanta. Or the stolen girls. After all, I don’t fight. Father would never let me learn. Still—”
“Oh, Homer,” Gabrielle broke in as he hesitated once more. “You can’t be certain how much help you’ll be, and neither can I. After all, when I first started traveling with Xena, I didn’t have one of these.” She spun the staff deftly; his eyebrows went up. “And I seem to remember spending a lot of time getting into trouble, and her having to come save my neck.” She held up the staff and started toward the running water; he followed. “Still, even back then, I could talk my way out of things, and sometimes that was a lot of help to her. Unexpected help. So don’t feel like you have to be able to swing a sword to help out; it just isn’t true.” She glanced sidelong at Homer; suddenly, her cheekbones felt warm as she knelt at the water’s edge and drank next to him. Flustered, she freed a flat leather pouch from her belt, uncorked it, and eased the opening into the stream.
“Did I ever tell you about what happened when I made the mistake of telling a virgin priestess and a cave full of concerned villagers and priests that the girl was reading from a sacred scroll in the wrong rhythm? And how when I read it right, I woke three Titans?” She sighed and shook her head. “That could have been an awful mess. It was—well, it came awfully close. But Xena fought one of the Titans, Hyperion, and a bunch of really nasty thug types who’d been threatening the villagers—which was why they wanted the Titans to fight for them in the first place. Well, who knew the Titans would be looking out for Number One, rather than the people who freed them? I talked as fast as I’ve ever talked in my life, and it still wasn’t easy.”
Gabrielle glanced sidelong at Homer as she pulled the filled bag from the water and re-corked it. He was openly appreciative of the tale, and she could almost hear his mind filing it away for later retelling. “Well, anyway,” she said with an offhand shrug, “that’s how we started out together. Xena fought, I talked. And between us, we fixed things. The two remaining Titans were turned back to stone, the thugs were run off or flattened, and the village was saved.”
“Really?” He smiled warmly; she couldn’t tell if he thought she was embroidering wildly on some tale from her own village or actually telling the truth. He obviously liked the story—well, that was something, anyway. She got stiffly to her feet, hung the dripping bag from the saddle, and took up the reins.
“Really,” Gabrielle said solemnly as she picked her way around a pile of rubble; Argo followed, his muzzle dripping onto her arm. She sighed faintly and wiped away the cool drops. “If we were going the right direction, I could even show you the cave where they are—you can make out their shapes in the rocks. She was really pretty—Theia, the Titaness—and nice, too.”
“Really!” Homer said thoughtfully. Of course, that was another bardic trick: offer to show the exact location of the tale—if only you could. But there was always a good-sounding excuse why you couldn’t. Still, he seemed impressed. “When there’s time, you’ll have to tell me the whole tale.”
“Well, sure.” She cast him a warm smile, and thought, Everything except maybe the part about Phyleus. The young priest had nearly been her “first.” Not that Homer wouldn’t understand about that kind of thing—she thought he would. He certainly wouldn’t be jealous, because he and she weren’t that sort of friends. But—well, some things were a little too personal to share. Come to think of it, I’ve never explained about Phyleus to Xena, either. And I have no clue about any relationships Homer had before we met. Or since—or presently.
Some distance ahead of them, Xena ran steadily along a dusty, narrow track that bordered a dry streambed and wound slowly uphill between two steep-sloped mountains. It was nearly dark in the ravine; now and again, she had to slow to check for tracks, though it wasn’t likely the men or the chariots would have been able to branch off this track once they’d ridden onto it. Most places, stones and trees would block anything but a fairly narrow human from striking out cross-country. Atalanta was still ahead of her, but she was steadily gaining on the huntress; the narrow, shallow footprints were less and less blurred by wind each time she checked. The chariot tracks, unfortunately, were clearly hours old.
One long, last climb brought her out of the trees and into an area of cracked and pulverized stone. An odd shape in the increasing gloom brought her up short: a chariot, one wheel shattered, rested at an awkward angle against the bank. The horse traces had been cut, and the horses were long gone. The rails were cool, lightly beaded with dew, and the car was empty. Another hundred or so paces further, the path moved away from the streambed, crossed smoothed, solid stone for a short distance, and then, narrower than ever, went back into soft dirt. More tracks were here, scarcely visible even when she knelt to examine them: a number of thin chariot wheels had passed here; after them, narrow boots. Xena sighed and gazed around as she got to her feet. Still no way for a chariot to leave the road; it would be smashed to bits on the stones, even if the horses could manage to pick a way through without breaking a leg or throwing the riders. She drew a deep breath, resettled her sword more firmly in its scabbard, and took off again.
The moon was just beginning to peer over the edge of the cliff to her left to shine on the sea, and great rock to give way to trees and brush, when she caught up to Atalanta. The sprinter was standing in the midst of the track, clearly waiting for her, arms folded across her chest. At her back, a clutch of five empty chariots stood mid-road. A pale horse limped slowly from shade behind her and nuzzled the ground at the track’s edge; a length of harness bound him to the wheel of the nearest chariot.
Sweat beaded on the huntress’s brow and plastered the thin yellow chiton to her skin; her long, thin mouth was sardonic. “Xena. I knew I could count on you. What took you so long?”
“I’m here now,” Xena replied steadily, and started to go around her. Atalanta held out an arm and shook her head.
“Go right on, if you insist. I got here too late to read the tracks or the road clearly; it was too dark to see anything except that they’d used a branch to obliterate footprints moving away from the cars, and they’d done that for some distance up the road and on both sides of it. Also, that stupid lame brute has muddled the ground all around the carts. I need light before I can tell which way they’ve gone—real light, not simply a torch. And I need sleep before I make another run like that last one.” She shrugged. “But of course I wouldn’t dream of telling you what to do. You want to go tearing around the woods in full dark, be my guest. The horse’s skin is cool; they’ve been gone for some time—before sunset, easily.”
“Really,” Xena said flatly as the huntress paused.
“Really. Don’t bother to take my word for it,” Atalanta added sourly. “You ride, you’ve driven a chariot. Figure it out for yourself, the distances and how hard a horse can run a road like this one.”
“I’ll take your word—for now.”
“Thank you so much. Take the time to figure it, you’ll see I’m right. They could be anywhere. Like twenty paces behind me, or halfway to Sparta.”
“Why would they go to Sparta?” Xena asked evenly.
“Why go anywhere? Why take those girls? Why take this road? Why would I know?” Atalanta snapped. “I doubt they’re close, because sound carries in country like this, and I haven’t heard anything in an hour, except you corning up the road. My own guess is that they’re beyond the ridge over there.” She turned to point roughly northwest.
Xena gazed at her for a long moment, then shrugged. “All right, I’ll wait. I’d like to be able to see what I’m walking over, anyway.” Her smile was a mirthless flash of teeth. “No offense intended. If those men were going to murder their captives, they’d have done it by now.” Other, equally ugly possibilities hung unspoken between them.
“They’d have murdered the girls on the spot, back on that beach in Athens, if that was what they wanted to do. By now, if they’d wanted to—to—well, anything is possible,” Atalanta agreed coldly.
“And if it’s done, then it’s beyond preventing. Agreed.” Xena wasn’t about to let herself be baited. “All right, we’ll wait here until daybreak. You going to object to a fire?”
The huntress considered this, then shook her head. “A small one—no. A fire on this road could be anybody, I suppose. They—they might not expect someone following them yet, and they—I don’t know. They aren’t on this side of the ridge for certain. I would have heard or seen something.”
“Really?”
“It’s what I do, remember?” Atalanta hissed. “You want fire, we’d better start getting wood together before we have to find it by feel. And I hope you don’t need anything hunted tonight; it’s too dark, and I’m tired.”
“Don’t put yourself out on my account,” Xena replied with a flash of teeth. The huntress spun away and stalked across the road. Xena went in the opposite direction to see what she could find.
It took time to get enough dry wood and small bits to start a fire that wouldn’t light the entire hillside—or smoke; by the time Xena got it to catch properly, it was full dark. Atalanta huddled in her boarskin cape, her dark eyes fixed on the fire. Xena dropped down across from her, felt in one of her small belt bags, and drew out a trail stick—a tough, dried mess comprised of bits of smoked meat, fruit, and herbs, rolled together and dried over an apple-wood fire. Not the greatest taste, but better than her attempts at soup or stew, and good for filling the stomach and for energy. “Here,” she said, and held out the stick. Atalanta started nervously, eyed the thing—or the hand holding it—warily, then shook her head. “Go on,” Xena urged. “I have several. You can pick one and watch me take the first bite, in case you think I’m trying to poison you.”
“Hah,” Atalanta responded sourly, and snatched the stick. She turned a little aside to sink her teeth into it—shy about eating with anyone else, Xena thought, or unwilling to let her despised comrade see how desperately hungry she was. She doesn’t eat enough to keep a butterfly alive. Look at her—all bone and skin, no muscle anywhere except her legs. I don’t care what goddess has blessed her, or how fast she can run, that isn’t healthy. “Thank you,” the huntress mumbled finally. “Tough—but it tastes good. I hope it isn’t half lard,” she added warily, and stopped chewing.
“Just enough to hold it together. Here—take another, you worked for it.”
“I—”
“Go on,” Xena urged. “It won’t make you fat.”
“Fat.” Atalanta shuddered and let the half-eaten stick fall. Xena sighed under her breath, retrieved the stick, wiped it off, and held out another.
“You need something in your stomach, particularly after a day like today. You need the energy, all right? You want to find those girls tomorrow and get them back to their mothers, don’t you? You ought to know you can’t do it without food. Real food. But this will hold you over.” Until Gabrielle gets here, she added to herself. Atalanta seemed to have forgotten about that little detail; it could stay forgotten until the girl actually got here. Avoid another spat, at least for the moment. Atalanta took the second stick, bit off an end and chewed, her eyes fixed blankly on the ground just in front of the fire.
Xena shoved another dry branch into the flames and found herself hoping Gabrielle was still carrying her favorite soup starter—the leather bag filled with sun-dried vegetables and a few bits of travel stick, a handful of barley, and whatever herbs she had at hand to kill the taste of the leather bag. It had kept the two of them fed on more than one night when they’d been between villages at full dark. Better yet, maybe the girl would have had the forethought to stop at one of the streams she’d crossed coming here so she could add water to the mix; if so, it could be poured into the pot strapped to Argo’s ample rump and then heated. It wasn’t exciting, or even particularly tasty, but it was certainly better than her own cooking. With a few slices of dry bread tossed into the pot, it made an extremely filling soup.
But, she admitted to herself, the necessity of riding Argo had probably driven everything else from Gabrielle’s head. If Gabrielle had to track down water up here, it would take at least an hour for the dry stuff to soften and become soup. The warrior scowled at her half-eaten trail stick. Amazing. I’m sitting across a campfire from someone I detest—someone who can barely stand to be on the same mountainside with me. We’re waiting for dawn so we can track down dirty thugs who’d dare kidnap young girls—and all I can think about is food. Dear gods and goddesses, Gabrielle’s finally gotten to me.
Her mouth quirked, and she turned away to hide a smile. Atalanta would surely assume it was somehow directed toward her, an intended insult, and start another argument. At the moment, the quiet was particularly nice.
It lasted for at least another hour. The moon had broken free of the distant sea, and the tops of the taller trees were frosted with pale light; the fire had burned down once, and Xena had gone for more wood. Atalanta finished her trail stick, pulled the boarskin close around her, and sank into a moody study of her sandals. Silence, except for the soft snapping of the fire. Thin clouds rolled in from the south; the moon appeared to be flying across the sky as it sailed in and out of cover.
The lame horse roused them both, whickering softly. Atalanta rolled her eyes, but Xena was already on her feet, striding toward the road. She reached it just as the moon broke clear once more. The bluish light bleached Gabrielle’s hair and Argo a ghastly white. A third figure limped at Gabrielle’s side.
Gabrielle caught sight of Xena and waved. “Hi! Hope we aren’t too late. I brought dinner and—and I brought Homer. I think they were gonna lynch him back there on the sand, it was getting crazy. Well, I thought, you really shouldn’t waste a good bard, right?”
Xena smiled; behind her, she could hear Atalanta cursing steadily and inventively under her breath. “Main reason I keep you around, Gabrielle. Besides your traveling stew, of course.” The smile broadened. “I’m glad to see you again so soon, Homer. You already met Atalanta, didn’t you?”