By the time the sun was low in the sky, the air had become noticeably sullen and thick; from a shaded corner of the roof, Xena could see mist beginning to form in one of the sheltered little bays. Even the sea looked sluggish; foam slid quietly over sand and stones, slipped back out soundlessly. Xena leaned back against a low parapet and gazed out toward the mainland.
“It’s a little risky,” she murmured. Not as risky as a direct confrontation, of course. And Draco wouldn’t fall for the same trick as last time—one-on-one combat, winner take all. “I could make him fight—” Maybe. The odds weren’t that bad; Draco had about two hundred men in his camp, but not all of them would be willing to jump her, and all two hundred couldn’t jump her at once. This was still better. Less danger to the others involved.
Because this plan would call for some help: Socran and his fellow sailors; possibly Telemachus, if she could coach him to do exactly what she wanted, and get his solemn word he wouldn’t deviate from that.
She narrowed her eyes, came partway to her feet. The mainland had vanished; nothing of the horizon was visible save a pale gray. She smiled, eased back down, and thought some more.
The sun was a deep orange ball sliding into mist when she finally dropped down from the roof onto an east-facing balcony, slipped through an empty chamber and into the hall that led to Penelope’s apartments. But motion to her left brought her around; one of the narrow servants’ halls cut through the opposite wall, and several paces back in shadow, she saw Lemnos. He took another step back, glanced over his shoulder warily, then beckoned. Xena eyed the broad hall in both directions, checked the corridor behind him, then slipped into the gloomy opening.
“I need to talk to you,” he said in a low voice.
She gazed at him thoughtfully for a long moment, finally nodded. He’s no threat—but he doesn’t intend to be, either. The fingers that had hovered near her dagger hilt relaxed. “Not here,” she said finally.
“No—ah, where, then?”
“Kitchens?”
He was already shaking his head. “Rammis is down there, cutting up tubers.”
“This way,” she said with a jerk of her head back the way she’d come. Lemnos didn’t like crossing the broad hall, and his forehead was shiny with sweat once they gained the deserted chamber and the door was closed behind him. “Keep your voice low,” she said.
“Right,” he replied grimly. But he was quiet for a very long moment, unblinking eyes fastened on her shoulder or her arm; she didn’t think he was actually seeing her, though, and his first words proved it. “Marcus found me on the road outside Thebes, must be—ah, it was years ago. Too many of ’em,” he said finally. “My father’d died a season earlier, the bakery was more work than I’d realized, and I wasn’t making much money at it—not interested in working as hard as my father had, I know that now. I sold it to his oldest competitor, took the money, figured I’d head for Athens or Sparta—somewhere I could take up a sword, earn my keep as a city guard. I used to think that sounded exciting. In Thebes, though, it was all political, who your father was, who your father knew or could buy.” He shrugged.
“That ain’t important. I got jumped not far from the city gates, four guys almost as big as Metrikas took my money and my knife and were stomping me flat into the cart tracks when Marcus came along. Me, I was too dizzy by then to see much of what he did, but two of them guys wasn’t going anywhere except across the Styx and the other two wasn’t much more healthy. I said something—I forget what, something dumb like, ‘Thanks for saving my life,’ and he just laughed. After he helped me up and shoved my coins back in my belt, he said maybe he oughta teach me how to use that knife, that would save my life proper.” He swallowed.
“He—yeah. Well, he did that, kept me with him for about a year, then I decided to go on to Sparta. I never did join the guard, of course. I saw him off and on over the years, your camp and all, then—well, that was it.” He shrugged again, turned away, and surreptitiously blotted his eyes. “I shoulda known you didn’t—I mean—”
“It’s all right,” she said quietly. “Leave it at that.”
He nodded sharply, turned back to face her. “I’m not working for Draco anymore, not after today.”
“No? Why, tell me?”
He spread his hands in an exasperated shrug. “I don’t know what you’re really up to here, Xena; I know you got Draco wondering in fourteen different directions, and probably all of ’em wrong—he’s thinking with his loins at this point, Xena. You do that to him.”
“I know.”
He grinned suddenly. “Yeah. I bet you do.” The grin faded, was gone. “I think Kalamos was still alive when they shoved his boat back out to sea; all his men but one were dead. Draco thought the whole thing was pretty funny, me believing what that little scum told Metrikas, and trying to gut you like that. I—look, I swear I1”
“Forget it, Lemnos; you weren’t thinking, you did something stupid. You’re a lucky little man, though, you’re still alive. Kalamos manipulated you—so he’s paid for it.”
“Yeah—guess he knew just how I’d react—”
“That temper got you in bad trouble last time I saw you, Lemnos, you gotta put a hard rein on it. But this about you and Draco—why, tell me? You don’t want to stick with Draco anymore, go steal one of the fishing boats, head for the mainland. That’s probably your best chance—”
“No,” he broke in flatly. “You’re my best chance, Xena.” She took a step back, leaned against the door and studied him. His dark, round face was as solemn as she’d ever seen it. “Most of Draco’s men look at you, they remember what you was like, back when. Those who’ve heard this new stuff about you—well, most of ’em figure anyone can try dropping their old bad ways, but it ain’t gonna take. Draco’d like things to be that way in your case, because it makes you—available. So no matter what he hears, part of him’s still gonna figure you tried good and couldn’t hold on to it.” Silence.
“Maybe you misread things, Lemnos,” she said quietly. “Maybe that’s how I did things, and you’re as good as dead right now.”
“Maybe—fine, if that’s how it is. Man can’t live forever, especially in Draco’s company. I already told you, he ever finds a cook he likes better’n me, I’m bait.” Another silence; she could almost hear the pulleys shifting as he tried to pull his thoughts together and convince her. “All right, you were Marcus’ friend, too. Maybe he never told you, maybe he never had the chance—was a time, way back when, he tried turning his back on all that.” He waved an arm in the general direction of the camp. “For him, it didn’t work, and it made him kinda bitter, you know? That was one of the last times I ever saw him; he was drinkin’ a lot and soured on everything. I figure, maybe I owe it to him, try for myself. Maybe I don’t have any better luck than he did. You aren’t laughing at me, are you?” he added suspiciously.
Xena shook her head. “I wouldn’t laugh at you, Lemnos,” she said softly. “Not for that.” He would have said something else, but she held up a hand for silence. “All right,” she said finally. “What’re you up to for the next little while—say, between now and full dark?”
He shrugged. “Go put Draco’s meal together, make sure Rammis got the fire built right in the big oven and get the bread baking—”
“Rammis,” she muttered. “What do you usually do with him, after Draco’s fed?”
“Tonight, I wager he don’t make it to that point, Xena. He’s got this headache. . . .” He fell silent as she chuckled. “I mean, he’s only down there ’cause he’s more scared of Draco replacing him than I’m scared of that. Was scared of that,” he amended.
“He drink?” she asked. Lemnos nodded. “Fine. Feed him some of that red Draco had last night; he’ll be out until morning. Once you’re free, bring a tray—bread, fruit, anything—up to the queen’s apartments for me. Anyone asks, say I asked you to feed me there—after the party this afternoon and Kalamos showing up, I’m still a little angry. Draco asks about me, tell him the same thing but that maybe I’m gonna sleep awhile, see him later on. You and I talk when you bring the food.” She checked the hall quickly, then held a hand against his chest as he would have hurried out. “I’m trusting you, Lemnos. Maybe I’m crazy. But if you’re planning a fancy betrayal, if you’re lying to me, I swear it’s the last lie you’ll ever tell.”
“My tongue to the gods—and both my hands,” he replied solemnly.
“That’s it exactly.” Her voice was hard, her eyes chilly. “But it won’t be the gods who cut them off. Got it?” He swallowed hard, nodded once, and slipped past her, moving quietly and swiftly across the hall to gain the servants’ corridor. She gazed after him for a very long moment, finally shrugged gloomily.
He might be lying—she didn’t think he was. Maybe because of that story of his. Marcus did try changing—twice. It was still hard for her to deal with all of that, without her heart aching and her throat getting much too tight. Forget that, all of it. It doesn’t help Marcus and it won’t help Penelope. Lemnos is a good baker, a good cook; he’s not an actor. She shoved herself away from the wall, quietly eased the door closed behind her, and slipped to the queen’s rooms.
The queen was nowhere in sight; a lamp glowed warmly from the inner chamber and low voices came from that direction. Gabrielle stood on the east-facing corner balcony, her chin resting on her crossed arms; she was staring moodily at the darkening sky and growing fog. As Xena came up, she straightened and stretched, then sighed.
“You know, I’m beginning to feel like I’ll never want to talk again, once we get out of here.”
Xena smiled. “Oh—I’m not too worried about that.”
“Yeah, right.” But Gabrielle smiled back before she glanced over her shoulder. The smile slipped. “She’s really worried, mostly for Telemachus, about what’s gonna happen when Draco decides to push for an answer and she tells him no. I’ve tried to tell her that isn’t gonna happen, but—she doesn’t argue or anything,” the girl added helplessly. “She just smiles and nods, but I can tell she’s still thinking that—”
“I know. After tonight, maybe she won’t have to worry about it.”
“I knew you’d come up with a plan,” Gabrielle said excitedly; she lowered her voice cautiously as the warrior held up a hand and cast a meaningful glance into the main chamber. “I mean, you always do, and even if it’s just a few of us—”
Xena shook her head. “Not you, Gabrielle. Not out there, anyway. That’s Draco’s army, not a bunch of thugs like those louts Krykus put together to stir up war between the centaurs and the Amazons.”
Gabrielle looked momentarily offended; then her shoulders sagged and she sighed. “Yeah—I know, I can see the difference. Still, there has to be something I can do!”
Xena nodded and laid a hand on her friend’s arm. “There is. Who do you think’s going to be in here, the last barrier between Draco’s army and Queen Penelope?” Gabrielle’s eyes went wide and her jaw dropped. “Understand me, it should never come to that. Nowhere close. But nothing’s ever perfect, plans can go wrong. I’m going to need Telemachus out there. It’s going to be foggy and he knows this island as well as anyone; I don’t.”
“That leaves me,” Gabrielle said; her voice was low and steady, but her eyes were still huge. She made an effort to smile. “Well—hey! It’s nice to know I won’t just be telling stories while you’re out there kicking—”
“Right,” Xena said hastily. “I’ll get you a fighting staff.”
“Great! I—ah—mmm. There’s the queen,” she said suddenly. Xena turned to see Penelope standing in the center of her room, a deep blue cloth wrapped around her arms. “Asked me to just call her Penelope,” she added in a low voice. “Nice lady.” Raising her voice again, Gabrielle pressed past the limp, sheer curtain. “I’m out here, Penelope, but there’s not much to see anymore.”
“There may not be for another day or so,” Penelope replied; her eyes were momentarily warm, then wary as they moved past Gabrielle. She sighed faintly. “Oh, warrior; I wasn’t certain who else was out there. I’m—I’d never seen such fogs before I came to Ithaca, and they still make me nervous. More than ever, now that there really is something out there.”
Xena smiled. “Maybe after tonight, there won’t be.” The queen nodded, but she didn’t look very reassured.
“Part of me says you’re right, that my Odysseus would do the same thing—attack them, take them by surprise. The rest of me wants to hide in my rooms and wait for King Nestor to send an army and drive this Draco so far away he’ll never return.” She wound blue cloth around her arms and caught at her hair with both hands. “But if we wait, he might—”
She hesitated; Xena nodded grimly. “That’s why we don’t wait. Because the longer we wait, the more danger for you, your people—your son. And there’s no guarantee King Nestor will send an army.”
“He—” She slumped, turned away. After a moment she nodded. “He might not have the men, or the ships. He might weigh matters and decide my husband is dead and Draco would make a better ally than Odysseus’ widow and his orphaned son.”
“You’re a sensible woman,” Xena said after a moment. “Your husband is a fortunate man. So is your son.”
“My son.” Penelope shuddered, closed her eyes. “What—will he do tonight, to aid you?”
“Nothing like what your fears suggest,” Xena replied softly. “I need him to rally your servants and your villagers, and then to help me move from place to place without getting lost. I’d be hard-pressed to manage in mere darkness; fog makes it harder.” Silence. “He’ll be with me; I won’t let him do anything stupid.”
“You—I know,” Penelope said. “It’s just that—I know my son.”
“He’ll do what I say, and when I tell him to do it. He knows your life and your freedom ride on that; that knowledge will tether him better than anything else.” Silence.
“Penelope,” Gabrielle said, “He’s got a better chance to reach an age to grow his first beard, this way. I’ve seen Xena fight, and I know her; she doesn’t waste lives. Certainly not someone as young and untrained as Telemachus.”
“Yes, all right,” the queen murmured; an abashed smile tugged at her lips. “And he’d be shamed if I didn’t step aside and let him do what he must, isn’t that so? I won’t thwart you, warrior, and I won’t hold my son back. I know if you weren’t here to aid us, Telemachus might already be—be dead.”
Gabrielle make a faint, anxious sound. Xena spoke over it. “That’s exactly right. Remember how I met him last night; he was trying to steal a ship from under Draco’s nose. If Metrikas had been wandering the ship instead of unconscious in the hold, the boy—well, his heart’s in the right place, it’s a good start.” She hesitated, then spoke again. “This is a battle I don’t intend to lose, or I wouldn’t start it. But sometimes things happen. The wind could come at the wrong time and clear the fog away; someone could betray us. Battle isn’t ever exact.”
“I know. My husband’s told me about battle, often enough.”
“Good. Then you know that—whatever I intend, things might go wrong.”
“I know that,” Penelope replied steadily. Her eyes flicked toward the barred outer door. “That—isn’t worth much, is it? Not under real attack. And all these vast windows, all those balconies . . .”
“It won’t come to that,” Xena said, as evenly. “It shouldn’t. If it does, though—”
Penelope’s chin came up; dark brown eyes met pale blue ones steadily. “I suppose you have a spare dagger?”
Gabrielle made a faint, unhappy noise; Xena chopped a hand at her for silence, then freed one of her numerous small blades and held it out, hilt first. “You’re a brave woman as well as an intelligent one. Take it. Don’t even think of using it unless there’s no other choice.”
“Unless Draco or one of his men is—yes. I won’t be premature, warrior. My son needs me, and so do my people. And when my husband returns . . .”
“He’ll be a fortunate man,” Xena said as she hesitated. Her head came around; Penelope, dagger in her outstretched hand, froze as a faint tap came at the outer door once again. Gabrielle started for it, but Xena pressed past her. “Stay with her; keep her from listening.”
“Oh?” Gabrielle demanded curiously. “You’re expecting—?”
“Bread,” Xena replied, and crossed the room. She pressed one ear against the door. “Who’s there?”
“Lemnos. That you, Xena?”
“Who else?” she asked dryly, and moved the bar aside. Lemnos, his dark face set, edged sideways into the room, waited until she closed the door and re-barred it, then held out the tray. Xena crossed to the pillows she’d slept on the night before, dropped down, and gestured for him to join her. “You first,” she added as he held out a plain wooden platter that held two of the fruit loaves, a small jug of wine—heavily watered, by the color of it—two mugs, a very small bowl of grapes and one dusty purple plum, and several strips of very plain, very well-crisped meat—swine, from the savory odor rising from the platter, and still quite hot. She smiled again as he hesitated, and one hand swept meaningfully over the food and drink. Lemnos poured wine into both cups, waited for her to take one before he drank from the other, let her place a random strip of meat across his palm. He balked only when she held out the plum.
“That was—I saved that out from Draco, just for you!” he protested.
“We’ll share,” she murmured. “Nice little bite, my friend.”
Lemnos grumbled, took the plum, and bared surprisingly neat, white teeth to take nearly a third of it off the pit. He chewed vigorously, sighed happily, and swallowed. “Gods of harvest and sweet virgin Demeter, but I adore those!”
“You did that on purpose,” Xena remarked pointedly. “Bringing one single plum so you could be assured of some of it. What—doesn’t Draco share the good stuff?”
“What do you think?” he growled.
Xena laughed and gnawed the rest of the fruit from around the stone. “Your information’s off, too. Demeter’s got a daughter, if I recall, so she’s hardly a—”
“Details, boring details,” Lemnos replied cheerfully and with an airy wave of one hand. “I don’t believe in gods, remember?”
Xena set aside the pit, picked up grapes, and began separating them from the stems. “You’re giddy, little man. I hope that doesn’t mean anything I’d rather not hear?”
His eyes met hers; he looked extremely indignant. “As in, that I just poisoned you? Or that Draco’s just outside the door with forty handpicked brutes to personally turn you into swine feed? Xena—I prepared that food! And I already swore—”
“Yeah, all right.” She laid a hand over his mouth, silencing him. “I’m still finalizing plans. That means I’m itchy, anything’s gonna set me off, all right?”
“I know that,” he said earnestly. “Look, Draco’s down in his private dining room glowering at the walls and swilling down wine like—well, he’s either suspicious or just plain old displeased about something. Probably you.”
“Good. I want him off balance.”
“He’s already drunk. And getting mean. You want him so off balance he spits me if I look at him wrong, then comes after you?”
“He won’t,” Xena said quietly. “Because you’re gonna go back down there and push another jug of that red on him, aren’t you?”
“I’m gonna push—you know what he’ll—?” Before she could say anything, he held up both hands, shook his head, and sighed. “All right. I find a way to pour more wine down him. And?”
“And then you wait for my signal—”
“Wait where and what signal?”
“I was coming to that,” Xena replied with exaggerated patience. Lemnos cast her a crooked grin and ducked his head as if ready to ward off a blow. Damn the little man, I like him in spite of myself, she thought suddenly, and with an equally sudden lift of heart. “Once Draco’s out cold, you find a way to be on the portico steps, north side, next to the pillars—where you could normally see the fishing boats—and watch for a torch waved back, forth, back, then down. It might be a while. You wait, you stay alert, you see what?”
“Back, forth, back, then down. Pretty hard to copy by accident,” he said. “Steps, pillars, north side, torch. It’s foggy out there,” he added suddenly.
“The torchbearer will get close enough to the palace to see the pillars, so you’ll see the torch.”
“Ah—right. And?”
“And you meet me at the foot of the portico steps, and we go out into the fog and—well, you’ll see.”
“Sure, Xena. And what’s Draco’s army gonna be doing all this time?”
“Let me take care of them,” Xena said evenly, though a smile was tugging at her own mouth. “Just pray the fog holds.”
Lemnos chuckled. “I hear it’s gonna be so foggy out there tonight, a man couldn’t tell his own mother from the Hydra.”
“Draco’s mother might’ve been the Hydra,” Xena told him, but her eyes were wicked. “You with me, Lemnos?”
He sobered all at once. “I’m with you, Xena. With you, and in honor of Marcus’ shade. I may not survive this night, but at least I can face him down there and know I tried to do something right. Right?”
“Good man,” she replied gravely, and held out the tray. Lemnos jumped to his feet, took it, and eased the bar away from the door with one elbow. “One last thing,” she added suddenly. “You got any notion where Polyces sleeps?”
“Polyces—oh, him?” He shifted the tray, held up one hand, index finger turned down. “Yeah, sure. Why you wanna know?”
She merely smiled and waved him out, then barred the door behind him, and went swiftly across the room to ease out onto the northeastern-corner balcony. It was getting noticeably darker out there; little visible close to hand but darker shadows in foggy shade that were the nearest trees. Faint, ruddy light to the west; the last glow of sunset. A nearer rash of red dots—any man who could be, would be inside his tent on a night like this, or huddled around his fire. She could hear voices from the camp, but they were muted. An unpleasant smile touched her lips, was gone. Draco. Next time you’ll know better than to play this game with me. Next time— If luck and planning went her way, there would never be a next time. Not for Draco or his men, not this side of Hades. She smiled grimly, then composed her face and went over to talk to Gabrielle, who was watching and making pleased little comments as Penelope worked on her weaving.
By the time it was fully dark, fog was beginning to creep into the queen’s apartment and the old male servant was crouched in the center of the fire pit, pouring oil on a stack of wood, while two of the women draped heavier cloth over the windows. Penelope and Gabrielle had retired for the moment to the queen’s inner chamber. Xena stepped onto the northern balcony and tested the air; it didn’t seem particularly cool out here to her, just damp. From the edge of the curtain, it was nearly impossible to make out the balcony railing. She slipped back into the main chamber, crossed to the smaller one, and looked inside. Penelope was on her knees before a large, open chest, showing Gabrielle some of her linens. Both looked up as the warrior cleared her throat. “I’m going. Make certain of the door.”
For answer, Gabrielle held up the thick staff and gave her a rather grim smile. Penelope looked perilously near tears, but she, too, managed a smile, then squared her shoulders and turned back to the chest.
Telemachus was waiting for her in the lower hall; she held a hand against her lips, warningly, and he nodded, then swung around and pointed down yet another of the servants’ tunnels. She nodded, followed. It went north for several paces, bent west, dove down.
After some distance, he slowed and murmured, “It used to be for the cooks to bring in supplies from the boats, before my mother had the new kitchens built. Comes out most of the way to the shore.” A short while later he stepped aside, indicating a thick line of brush. Xena edged through this with care, stopping once or twice to listen intently, but there was no one near—no sound but the very faint lap of water against stone.
She tugged at his ear as he came into the open. “Who knows about this?”
“Everyone who belongs on the island. They don’t.” He bent to pull the brush back into line. “You can’t see it unless you know it’s here.”
“Good.” She took a few steps into the open, avoiding the softly surging water by sound and luck both. Out here, she could hear the camp better; a few surly voices shouting at a group of sloppily drunken singers. At least, she thought it was meant to be singing.
Telemachus found her by feel, brought his face close to hers. “The swineherd’s hut is that way.”
“Lead on.” They slowed once; someone was stumbling around on the rocks, cursing in a low voice. Moments later they heard sloshing sounds, boots scrabbling on shifting stone; the sounds retreated, heading back toward camp. Another fifteen or so paces, the beach bent northward and the red pinpoints of firelight faded, then were gone.
Telemachus stopped and touched her arm. “Headland just there,” he breathed, pointing toward the darkness behind them.
It was quiet here, with the slope between them and the camp. All at once Xena could hear the faint snuffling of pigs. The prince set out, moving very slowly and cautiously. Xena came behind him, still listening for any sounds behind them; the stones at the waterline here were larger and slick. The pigs were louder now, and she could hear a faint trickle of running water.
A little light, all at once, a tiny flicker showed all around the warped, ancient planks of the swineherd’s door. Inside the little hut: Socran, his two comrades from the ship, and a dozen more sturdy, grim-faced Ithacans. As the two came into the light, the gray-haired little sailor got to his feet. “He said we can help you deliver our homes and our queen. What do we do?”
It took time, getting back across the island, around the palace to the sandy beach where two fishing caïques and the ship lay. There were torches here; two shoved into the sand flanking the little open boats, another on the ship’s tilted deck. By that flickering light, Xena could just make out the cloaked guard who leaned against the rail, and the spear point that cast a faint shadow across fog. Socran edged up behind her, tapped her hand, and indicated the fishing boats. She leaned closer, nodded once, then settled down to wait. Men passed her—most of those who’d followed Socran, armed with garden tools or wicked-looking fishermen’s spears. One brought up the rear, an awkward bundle making a misshapen monster of him: nets.
She waited, listening closely. A faint grunt, a thump—no other sound. She reached for Telemachus, then; he had stayed at her left elbow the entire time, quiet, well behaved, waiting. Better than I thought, she admitted to herself. Up on the ship’s deck, the guard sat up and appeared to be listening intently, but after a moment she could hear him settling against the rail once more. She touched the prince’s hand, indicated the deck and the guard with a quick gesture. He nodded, eased past her. Xena took one wary look around—wasted, she thought; the fog was thick enough that without the torches she could have passed the ship at two arm-lengths and never seen it at all. It was silent here; any of Draco’s men coming this way wouldn’t have any reason to be quiet. She drew her dagger and headed for the low side of the ship.
Telemachus had just pulled himself onto the opposite rail; the little vessel shifted slightly as the guard leaped to his feet. “Oh—hello,” the boy said brightly. “I didn’t know anyone was out here, I was getting bored back at the palace, and I—”
The guard interrupted him; his voice was gravelly and menacing. “Get off the ship now, or I’ll throw you off.”
“Well—sure, all right. It’s not like I could steal it, though, is it?”
“Off!” the guard snarled; the ship lurched again and he started to turn—too late. Xena’s dagger hilt slammed into his temple and he dropped to the deck. Telemachus stepped down to join her.
“Good work,” she said softly. “Bind him and gag him. I’m going to go see how—” But at that moment Socran appeared just below them, his face barely visible in the flickering torchlight. He jumped up and caught hold of the rail, pulled himself on board, then held down an arm for one of his comrades. The scrawny little tillerman was next; he glanced at the fallen guard, then met Xena’s eyes and drew his hand across his throat twice. She nodded. Telemachus got to his feet. “You come with me,” she whispered. “You men, get the boats out. You’re sure you can bring them in where we decided?”
“Within a finger’s reach,” the tillerman replied softly. He dragged the bound guard along the deck, ready to toss in the hold once the ship was afloat and the deck level, then moved into the stern to unblock the tiller. A moment later four men leaned into the bow and shoved the sturdy little vessel across soft sand and into the water.
Xena moved across rutted sand; the fishing boats were already gone. One torch had fallen over and was nearly out; the other flickered over two huddled, very dead men. She smiled grimly, turned back as Telemachus came up behind her. His face was expressionless, but she could guess how much that was costing him. After a moment he turned away and drew a deep, shuddering breath. The warrior walked him back away from the torches; fog covered the bodies after only a few steps.
A faint splashing and two low thumps just ahead of them and just to the east: men moving quickly through the low surge to jump onto the ship. More faint splashing and a creak as the oars moved stealthily into the water and the sailors began the job of backing blind into deeper water.
The prince touched her arm and leaned close, but she never heard what he was going to say; her hand clamped down on his fingers and she thrust him behind her as a faint clatter of stones came from somewhere up the path that led to the small village. “Farther out of the light,” she whispered.
Telemachus backed away from her, turned and simply vanished. Heavy boots came down hard on stones, sand creaked as someone stalked toward the boats. Xena drew her sword and waited. A bare moment later, ruddy torchlight shone on a broad, long blade and wild red hair.
Metrikas stopped cold and stared down at the bodies, then wildly toward the fog-shrouded sea. He drew a breath to yell; Xena smiled and stalked into his line of vision. “Hello, Metrikas. How’s your head?”
He roared wordlessly, raised his blade back over his head, and leaped for her. She ducked under the blurring downslash with ease, closed the distance between them, reversed her sword, and slammed the hilt into his chin; his head went back with a snap, and he staggered, but kept his grip on his own sword. “I’ll gut you, woman,” he swore in a hoarse whisper.
“Like that? Don’t make me laugh.” She parried four wild swings, slapped his cheek hard with the flat of her blade.
“Traitor,” he snarled, and changed his attack. Half a dozen hard, fast thrusts got him no further than the roundhouse swings had. He dropped back a pace, drew a long-bladed dagger, and began to circle, both blades describing intricate patterns in the air before her. She pivoted on one heel, watching, and drew her own dagger, her sword utterly still. Metrikas leaped; Xena sidestepped deftly, slammed one booted foot into his backside. He went flat, but bounded up again. She smiled, waited for him to scoop up his dagger, watched his eyes. He might think his movements surprises, but his whole body gave him away. Slow and stupid, she thought. He leaped again, but pulled to one side at the last moment and aimed a short, chopping blow at the side of her neck. She spun away, using his sword for momentum, and brought her sword hilt up as she came around. This time it cracked into his temple; he staggered, swore—but didn’t fall.
He’d lost what little style he had with that last blow; now he was swinging wildly, hoping to overpower her with sheer size or maybe somehow to connect if he aimed enough slashes her way. He wasn’t going to give up or go down, and any moment now he might realize all he had to do was yell for reinforcements. She sighed, blocked his sword high and away with her dagger, and lunged. It took him high in the belly and angled up; Metrikas swayed for a very long moment, staring blankly down at the sword hilt. His knees buckled and he fell, face first, onto the torch.
It went out, plunging the area into utter darkness. Xena swore under her breath, listened for a long moment. No sound except the water and somewhere behind her Telemachus’ high, panting breath. Metrikas lay utterly limp; she swore again, rolled him over with her foot, retrieved her blade and the torch. Gutted—but there was still a glowing coal in there.
“Telemachus,” she whispered.
“I—I’m here.” Trembling, cold fingers found her shoulder. She clamped them to her arm briefly, then passed him the torch.
“You’re doing fine. Can you get this burning again?”
“I can try.” His voice sounded a little better this time. It took more time than she would have liked, but the beach was still quiet when he finally managed to blow a little life into the torch. “It got wet down the side,” he began, then swallowed.
“I know it did.”
With Metrikas’ blood. Great.
Telemachus swallowed again, then got a better grip on the smoldering thing and led the way back toward the palace.