Xena never made too much noise in her sleep. That would be dangerous...
an invitation to attack. Even the most vivid dreams caused little beyond tiny
noises and subtle physical reactions. Tonight was one of those kinds of dreams.
Small mercy that she had found an abandoned shack to spend the late afternoon
and early evening in. The four walls helped protect her and her horse from
possible observation. It also ensured that the only audience to Xena's current
state was that same animal.
The armour-like stiffened leather vest that she had taken to wearing was at
it's most constricting. Xena's blunt-nailed fingers had clawed absently at the
dark shirt she wore underneath, dragging open the ties at her throat to expose
her neck and upper breasts to the cooling night air but the complicated lacings
of the vest were beyond the dexterity of her unconscious mind. Sweat beaded up
on her skin only to be smeared as she tossed her head and swiped at her face
with restless arms. From the very back of her throat came faint whimpers of
need and arousal. The name of her long departed lover formed over and over
again on lips that had been swollen from biting, but Gabrielle's name was never
spoken aloud. Suede covered hips shifted restlessly and long legs parted in
invitation. The tip of Xena's tongue emerged to curl up, dampening her upper
lip. A rhythm began in the slight hip thrusts her lower body was making. Black
eyebrows drew together and Xena's spine started to arch.
Just as her breath suggested that something momentous was about to occur
Xena began to flail wildly, reaching to catch hold of something that was fast
slipping away from her. A muted groan of protest broke past the warrior's lips.
Her fingers clenched uselessly on air.
"Don't." The denial was voiced quietly. Arousal turned easily into anger.
The flush of colour on her cheeks and below her collar darkened yet again. Her
leg muscles twitched with the threat of kicks and whirling attacks. Xena caught
at her waist, seeking the chakram that she used to carry so long ago. Lips drew
back in a threatening snarl.
"Won't let you." The whispered declaration was barely audible. Xena's body
twisted in the throes of a nightmare long enough to bath her entire body in
sweat and hopelessly tangle her heavy hair with the tossing of her head.
She bolted upright, grabbing after the sword lying at her side. Xena had
rolled into a defensive crouch before she was completely awake. Her naked blade
swung menacingly, covering all approaches as she circled twice before deciding
she was safe.
An obscenity in a long unused language slipped out. Xena sat her sword down
and scrubbed ruthlessly at her eyes and cheeks. Nightmares didn't normally
plague her, at least not to the extent they had over the last couple of months.
[I suppose my conscience has decided I'm too tough a case. Now it has to attack
me in my sleep to make an impression.] The attempt at levity fell flat, being
too close to the truth.
What good was her conscience anyway? It was nothing more than a relic from
times long past. She had learned over the years to ignore the nagging doubts
while in the middle of a task... to bury them deep down where they couldn't
bother her until the job at hand was tended to. She realised that she was out
of practice. It had been a long time since her conscience had bothered her.
Her thoughts turned in remembrance to a time that she had very nearly
slipped into the darkness that hovered constantly just at her shoulder. The
situation wasn't so far removed from the one she found herself in right now.
That war had been brought about by a difference in religions rather than the
expanding of an empire but it could be all the more vicious because of the
cause. Xena had always tried to stay out of religious wars. Men fighting with
the belief that a God stood on their side were even more insane than soldiers
fighting over property or land were. They reduced their opponents to something
less than human simply because of a difference in belief. It seemed foolish
considering what Xena, personally, knew of the Gods and their compassion for
humankind. For hundreds of years waves of violence swept across Europe and
crashed into the so-called 'Holy Land' without accomplishing anything of value.
Xena had moved out of the line of destruction fairly early considering how long
the debacle lasted. It had been comfortable, returning to a place so near her original
homeland after several lifetimes moving among the black-skinned tribes of
Africa. Xena had enjoyed setting up a house and shop in the sleepy village. The
language came back to her lips easily and the herbs she harvested to stock her
shelves were as familiar as old friends were. The folk of the town had taken
the stranger into their trust quickly. It was a good life and Xena wasn't yet
near the end of her stay. Years had passed, yes, but three or four more were
still possible when an outside force decided to interfere.
Xena had closed up the shop and headed into the hills to replenish her
stock. No babies were due. Everyone had been flush with good heath. It was an
excellent time to go foraging... or so she had thought. The young apprentice
she had taken on a year ago was far enough along in her training to handle
things while she was away.
The immortal returned five days later.
The day was brilliant, sunny and bright with enough of a breeze coming as
dusk approached to make for comfortable sleeping. A smile played across Xena's
lips despite the stuffed pack weighing her shoulders down. It was good to be
home. She was growing spoiled, missing her stuffed mattress and the comfort of
soft soled slippers on her feet. One of the neighbours would certainly offer
their returning herbalist fresh bread and a filling supper. Her mouth watered
in anticipation of a hearty meal. With luck Tamia, the woman next door, would
arrive at her door with a basket full of sweet rolls come the morning.
The edge of town surprised her. Walls suddenly appeared before Xena expected
them. Lamps should already be sending a warm glow out of the windows and into
the gathering twilight to illuminate her path. Voices should have drifted to
the immortal's ears on the freshening breeze. Instead that slight wind carried
the scent of decay.
Her body reacted instinctively. Centuries of experience kicked in less than
a heartbeat later. Xena silently discarded her encumbering pack. Her belt knife
slipped silently from its sheath and she pressed into the cold comfort of the
nearest building. The wail of distress that tore at Xena's throat remained
internal through force of will as her searching gaze picked out the first
broken body. The only sounds that disturbed the still night were the harsh
calls of carrion birds and a growling dispute between two dogs behind one of
the small houses.
The immortal ghosted forward, teeth clenched tight. The street was littered
with the shells of Xena's friends and neighbours. Children she had brought into
the world over the last seven years lay destroyed within arm's length of their
parents and siblings. Most were hacked carelessly but near a few kicked in
doors the bodies were neatly decapitated and in piles.
Who would do such a thing? Who would destroy an entire town of people so
indiscriminately? It was madness. Someone had to have survived the massacre,
Xena told herself.
She picked up her pace, almost running through the few short streets that
made up her home. Days had passed since the carnage. The attackers must have
come shortly after she had retreated into the wilderness. Animals, gone halfway
wild with the sudden neglect, were the only living things that the immortal
could find. It took until well past full dark to assure herself that none of
the people responsible remained in the area.. One grave had been dug not too
far from Xena's own shop. It was marked with a cross and some unfamiliar
western European name was scratched into the wooden decoration. A rosary hung
from the crossbar and wilted flowers were scattered about the mound. Xena
recognised the luxurious blooms as the ones that Tamia's aunt had so carefully
cultivated near her bedroom window.
[Crusaders.] The immortal decided with a grimace. Usually those pompous
fools kept more toward the sea as they crawled their way across the
countryside. It must have been a large band scrounging for supplies and easy
looting under the guise of purifying the natives. Xena had kept clear of the
conflict so far. Wars fought in the name of Gods were insane, as were most of
the people who participated in them. Zealots invariably forgot everything but
the cause. Worse yet were the men on the fringe of the movement who mouthed all
the same words but fought and killed for the sheer pleasure it brought them.
Neither type could be turned by reason or common decency.
A rush of anger made Xena kick out, destroying the cross in front of her
before she regained control. The immortal turned and walked to the place she
had happily called home for the last half-dozen years. Of course the entrance
was torn open and the place was ransacked. Most of the stock was thrown to the
floor, judged as worthless. Her personal possessions were in disarray. Almost
everything of value had been taken, almost everything. Using her heavy belt
knife, Xena knelt down near the overturned bed and began digging apart the
smooth slats that made up the honey-coloured floor. When a good-sized square of
dirt was revealed Xena changed tools. A small spade cut into the hard packed
dirt with some effort. Eventually she completely unearthed the trunk she had
buried too few years ago. The warrior recalled that it had physically pained her to remove that chest
from its hiding place. It had accompanied her for many years, travelling
through numerous settlements, but Xena hadn't felt the need to open the crate
for over a hundred years.
Xena stood up, pinching the bridge of her nose. A flick of a hand opened one
broken shutter. The Spanish night sky was a shock after so long a wander
through her thoughts. [I lost it for a few hours that time, didn't I beloved.]
She admitted. [I burned my home, tossing bodies on the flames like firewood. I
burned my clothes. My hair even caught fire at one point. I remember having to
hack it short to regain some semblance of humanity.] Xena leaned a moment,
staring out at the darkness. In the end all that remained was that box containing her weapons and
armour. The herbalist disappeared in the flames to be reborn as the warrior
once more. Her horse whickered, reminding Xena of more mundane chores. She padded over
to where the bag of grain had been set when she unpacked earlier. The immortal
measured out a portion and gave it to the animal. There had been no mount to help on that long ago mission of tracking down
the Crusaders. It had taken a few days of hard travel to catch up... only to
discover that the band was massive and well armed. She had to admit that the
task of taking on forty-five trained soldiers and their many retainers would
require some planning. It was frustrating because all she really wanted to do
was charge them and start hacking. Unfortunately, a wounding would give them
time to escape. So Xena lay in the itchy scrub and planned as the men went
about setting up camp for the night.
Occasionally a woman's wail would cut through the gathering dusk but the
warrior held back. Charging up now wouldn't accomplish anything. She watched
them set up a rather haphazard line of security. Their arrogance brought a
sneer to her lips. How dare they disregard the locals. She'd teach them some
respect... then she'd kill them.
Xena waited until the Crusader's camp settled, then she waited some more.
After securing any bits of her light armour or weapons that might rattle and
give her away the warrior crawled forward. She slipped through the sprawling
encampment sizing up her opponents. Her knife was put to use subtly sabotaging
pieces of tack and food containers as she moved. It took her some time to
choose three of the most formidable members of the band. Xena committed a
messy, obvious theft in each of their tents. She stole the most valuable bits
of jewellery and loot that those particular men had collected. The immortal
them stashed those same pieces into the baggage of one of slimiest looking of
the marauders. A single trinket was dropped in plain sight near her pawn's tent
wall.
Her work done, Xena easily crept away to catch a few hours sleep before
morning would put her back on the trail.
She wasn't close enough to be privy to the beginning of the accusations the
next day but as night closed and camp was pitched once more the warrior snuck
near enough to listen to the arguments. Factions were beginning to develop
quite nicely.
The Knights were slower to turn in this time and squires dozed across the
doorways to most of the tents but it was no major hardship. Xena stepped
carefully over the boy sprawled in her path and ducked under the line trap as
she entered her chosen victim's tent. The Crusader's loot chest was no where in
sight but that wasn't her target tonight. Silently, the immortal stole a
fancy-handled knife from the stack of weapons near where the man slept then
retreated. A selective angel of death, Xena flitted through the encampment,
slitting the throats of the men she had stolen from the night before. At each
deep slice a thick rush of satisfaction surged through her system. Revenge was
an intoxicant that she hadn't tasted in decades. Xena couldn't believe that she
had forgotten how fulfilling it could be.
The cleaning of the knife she had used was purposefully careless. Bits of
gore and a ribbon thin strand of collar fabric remained crusted about the
ornate handle betraying it as the murder weapon.
Satisfied with a good night's work, Xena withdrew from her hunting ground
once more.
It took only four days of shadowing the band before the immortal whittled
away eight of the Knights. Xena, however, wasn't satisfied. Watching them hang
one of their own and quickly picking off two stragglers didn't provide the
visceral satisfaction that she was seeking. The warrior wanted to feel their
terror. That's what it would take to soften the edges off the rage she felt at
what they had done.
On the fifth day Xena noticed that she wasn't the only one spying on the
foreigners as they stopped for nightfall. A ragged group of what looked to be
locals were massing to the south of the half-built camp. They may have been
villagers with their own revenge in mind or bandits. Xena didn't care at this
point. The prospect of a pitched battle made the blood sing in her veins. Pale
blue eyes watched avidly as the newcomers crept ever closer to the Knights.
The stars were full out in the sky and torches illuminated the area about
the tents when the locals finally decided to make their move. Xena hadn't
bothered to attempt contact knowing what most men around here thought of women,
let alone women warriors, but she wasn't about to hold back and let them have
all the fun either. They would quickly realise which side she was fighting on.
Just as the wave of attackers broke against the sentries surrounding the
camp Xena tore out of the darkness from a different direction. A running leap
took her over the heads of the outward facing guards and her sword began
drinking its fill. A few torches tipped setting the thin fabric of the tents on
fire and throwing a ghastly orange glow over the fragmented battleground.
Screams, both male and female, shattered the air. Horses fought the pickets
that held them, attempting to flee the sudden clashing of metal and flesh, to
no avail.
There was an art to puncturing the armour shells of the Knights, Xena knew.
Her sword had to almost dance, stabbing through breaks in the metal
protections. The easiest way to dispatch the bastards, since most had removed
their helmets as the sat down to rest, was a quick decapitation. Luckily Xena's
height, long sword and arm strength made that a feasible attack method. Her
body dropped easily into the mindless slaughter. Muscles remembered the actions
gleefully, killing one opponent after another without pause.
It was hard to pinpoint exactly what pierced through her battle haze. Maybe
it was the screams of women or simply the lack of armoured foes... but a moment
of stillness finally gripped Xena, allowing her pause to look around at the
devastation she was the centre of.
The men she had followed in were still at the task. Some were tearing down
the last few Crusaders, attacking them like pack dogs. Others were claiming
horses or dragging the Knight's loot out of flaming tents and happily breaking
open chests. The rest were completing a task that made Xena's stomach clench.
The Knight's female prisoners and servants were being slaughtered with swift
and brutal efficiency.
One of the squires, a blonde boy in roughly fitted homespun, was attempting
to wield a sword almost as large as himself defending a pair of wildly dancing
horses. Between the boy's stance and the determined look on his face Xena
couldn't help but be reminded of her own son, Solon, when he was about this
boy's age. {Enough!} The immortal hurled forward to intervene between the young
squire and the man attempting to murder the boy. Their swords crashed against
one another with a ringing clang.
The attacker stepped back with a frustrated snarl. "Out of the way, woman."
The local ordered.
"He's just a child."
"Who will grow up to be a murderer... just like those." A red-stained hand
waved negligently at the mangled swath that Xena had cut through the Knights.
"Move aside."
"No." The immortal stood firm.
The man turned as if to leave, then spun quickly on one foot bringing his
sword in a low, easy arc meant to disarm his opponent. Xena effortlessly
deflected the man's attack and continuing the motion brought her hilt into the
man's face sending him sprawling. The scuffle had attracted the man's
companions and upon seeing him fall before the woman a few laughed and a few
took offence. Xena moved to intercept those coming towards her.
The foreign boy backed up a bit into the shelter of the horses. He had seen
the dark-haired woman slashing her way through the group of Knights that his
master travelled with. Despite being female, she was obviously very skilled
with a sword. He had watched as the bloody blur of her blade tore into joints
and small openings in the Knights' armour. Strangely enough she now seemed
intent on defending him from what he thought were her allies. However her
pattern of attack was completely different with the raggedly dressed men. The
hilt of her sword struck out rather than the tip and her elbows and legs lashed
out. Punches and kicks knocked the men away but the boy didn't see any bodies
split open this time. The ferocious woman was the centre of a whirlwind,
tossing away any attempt the bandits made to approach. One tall assailant
received a brutal head butt to the nose when he closed in too tight, causing a
rush of blood. The defensive skirmish provoked groans of pain and a few sounds
that indicated breaking bones but no death screams.
"STAND AWAY!" Xena roared at the local men, not wanting this to turn into
another bloodbath.
With snorts of disgust and grumbled curses the original man and all of his
companions turned aside, no longer eager to tangle with the blood drenched
stranger after observing her in action. Unfortunately the minor confrontation
had lasted long enough that all the other non-combatants had been killed while
Xena was defending the boy.
Even at the height of her worst excesses, before Gabrielle's soothing
influence, Xena had never killed women and children. The bodies scattered about
her now were no different from the friends she had been attempting to avenge.
Some of the women had been captives taken from villages just like her's only to
be judged tainted by the attackers because the pale foreigners had used them. A
couple of the boys looked to be no more than seven or eight years old.
Suddenly sickened, Xena felt little beyond the need to distance herself from
the scene she had helped to create. The squabbling over loot that intruded on
her ears disgusted her. Still wary of the men milling about the destroyed
encampment the warrior spared a little attention for the lone survivor of the
massacre she had assisted in. Walking away from the boy would mean his death.
He was about eleven or twelve she guessed with milky skin and sunshine gold
hair that would mark him as an outsider in most of the surrounding countries.
Pale coloured eyes stared up at her, wide with fear, but still he attempted to
wield his oversized sword.
{What language do you speak, boy?} She began with English. Several western
tongues had been evident when Xena had been observing the Knights. {Latin?
French? Spanish?}
{French.} He finally replied in his language of choice. {A little bit of
Latin.} The boy elaborated, still in French.
Her nod was a faint movement. {I'm not going to hurt you.} She began. {I'm
probably the only one here who doesn't want to kill you... so I'd suggest that
you lower your weapon, lad.}
The tip of the blade dropped but it could have been fatigued arms as much as
submitting to her request.
{We've got to get out of here.} Xena decided. She had no desire to spill yet
more blood, even in defence. They had best be long gone before the arguing over
spoils ended. She moved, reaching for the picketed reins of the horses that he
had been protecting... only to notice the boy once more attempting to raise his
weapon. {Forget it boy.} She sighed wearily. {It's not like your master needs
these animals any more and we do.}
{We?} Blonde brows shot up. {I'm not going anywhere with you, woman.} He
appeared appalled at the suggestion. {You're a heathen, a killer. You stay away
from me.} The boy warned.
{Anytime now those men over there...} Xena indicated. {...are going to
figure out they outnumber us forty to one and that there are some supplies on
the back of one of those beasts you're guarding.} She batted the sword
impatiently aside, pushing past him to free the animals' tethers and climb up
onto the saddled horse. She seized the boy by the back of his shirt and dragged
him up in front of her before heeling the animals into a burst of
speed. A lonely bird's call pulled Xena abruptly back to the present day. The boy,
Armand, was long turned to dust, held close within the rich soil of Bordeaux.
She knew that for a fact. After spending four years with the young man as her
constant companion Xena couldn't resist keeping a casual eye on his progress.
They had even exchanged intermittent letters after the immortal had no longer
dared to show her unchanging face to her former charge.
Xena smiled. Her last sight of the man had been from a distance during a
festival. A throng of grandchildren had been clustered about Armand. It was a
rather considerable change from the pitiful boy she had saved or even the
intense scholar that he had become after she turned him over to that monastery
in southern France.
That line of thought brought a considering frown to her face. Xena wondered
if any of Armand's descendants were participating in this mess. She had lost
most of her interest in the line that resulted from Armand's marriage shortly
after her friend had died. Noticing only they continued as highly respected
vintners. The immortal hoped that Armand had managed to pass down some of the
lessons that he had learned during his time with Xena.
[What am I thinking?] She chastised herself. [Sometimes I have trouble
recalling the lessons... and I was there, beloved.] The warrior set to
gathering up her possessions. [I know what you're thinking... that I've gotten
caught up in the same mindset again.] She mused internally. [But the rule is
'no women and children'. I'm simply putting a halt to the actions of those who
have no sense of honour. War should be fought between soldiers.]
That wasn't all she had tried to convey to Armand. The boy had been very
naïve for a gutter-born orphan who had been dragged across Europe by a
bunch of sword wielding bullies. Xena toyed briefly with the idea of leaving her young charge with a local
family but the first time that they stopped in a village that idea was
discarded. Not one person wanted anything to do with the spawn of 'those
foreign devils'. Of course the boy's obvious contempt for the local 'heathens'
didn't help the matter at all.
They left that town quickly.
On top of everything else Xena now had to concern herself with the
provisioning and day to day needs of two people. In her revenge haze she hadn't
thought beyond weapons and armour now her lack of foresight took it's toll.
Small mercy that the knight's packhorse hadn't been unloaded when they took it
but it's contents wouldn't support them for long. The obvious solution was to
return to what remained of the village Xena had been calling home for so long.
She may have destroyed all her own belongings but she didn't think her dead
friends would begrudge her the aid she now required.
Xena dismounted at the edge of town and checked to see all her weapons were
ready for use. Scavengers were likely to have descended by now. She considered
leaving the boy hidden but decided he was far safer at her side. "If you see
anything moving tell me." Xena instructed her young charge. "Everyone who
belonged here is dead."
Wide eyes took in the scenery. "I've been here before." He admitted in a low
tone.
"I know." She looked for evidence of people about. "This is... was... my
home. The Knights you were travelling with... they killed everyone."
For a moment it looked as if he was going to attempt to justify the carnage
but Xena's grim expression dissuaded him. Instead he sat quietly on the horse
as Xena lead them into the centre of the ghost town. She levelled another of
those intimidating stares at him, the one that made him want to fidget and
protest, then her steps took on more purpose.
"I know a house." Xena had reservations about taking clothes from the home
of a teenage boy she had known to clothe someone who had aided his murderers,
but the dead no longer needed possessions and they forgave more easily than the
living. Getting the blonde out of his Crusader's livery was an immediate
concern. She was almost disappointed that no scavengers lurked about so she
could bleed off some of her anxiety with a fight. Instead she continued on,
bowstring tight.
"The bodies are gone." The boy observed quietly.
"They were my friends. I burned them." She paused to consider the wide
brownish stain near the door of the house they stood in front of. "Come inside
with me." Xena looped the reins of their two horses about a nearby post. She
pulled off the set of saddlebags that she had emptied after taking an inventory
of everything the horses had been carrying.
This house was a perfect choice. The dead boy's clothes were just a little
larger than her charge would need and the father's gear would do Xena just
fine.
"What's wrong?" She had tossed his livery into the hearth before looking up
to see the boy staring at her, shaking his head. "You didn't actually think we
were going to keep those rags, did you?"
His young brow was furrowed. "I worked hard to earn the right to wear
those." He complained.
"Look... " Xena pinned him with an angry stare. "Your people have looted
and killed their way across this country. If you were to wear those things...
sooner or later someone would try to take retribution on you. As it is just
looking at you is going to send some folks into a frenzy."
"But I didn't do anything. I just cooked and cleaned." The boy protested. He
was in a strange, hostile land with no grasp of the local language or how to
get home and his only point of contact was a murderous infidel... a murderous
FEMALE infidel. The precarious situation that he was in had grown more evident
with every passing hour.
"I never hurt anyone."
"They don't see 'you'." She explained carefully. "They only see a marauding
foreign devil."
"But that's not fair!" The boy protested.
"And this was?" Her temper sharpened and raised her tone. One gauntlet
covered arm waved. "Do you think the boy whose clothes you're wearing did
anyone harm. I know he didn't. He tended animals. He spent his days chasing
after the goats that have been filling your belly for the last few days. The
most harm he ever did was to squeeze one of the nanny goat's teats too tight
when he was milking her. Do you think he deserves to be ashes on the wind while
we take his clothes to keep you from being strung up by the next mob we chance
across. Don't you dare complain about what's fair, boy."
"I'm sorry your friend died" Was the low mumble. "But you don't understand.
It's a holy war." He tried to explain
"War is soldiers fighting soldiers. People who know the situation and accept
the possibility of death battling against more of the same. This... what your
Crusaders were doing is not war. What those other men were doing at your camp
wasn't war either." She evened out her tone. "All of them were bandits and
murderers getting their kicks by destroying innocents... making decisions on
the value of another person's life because they follow a different set of
beliefs. It's sickening."
"But their beliefs... "
"NO. We don't have time for this. Not here. Not now." She interrupted,
snatching up some of the things piled in front of her. "We have to get out of
here."
The boy kept quiet, releasing that arguing with the warrior while they stood
amid the ruins was futile. He would wait for a more appropriate time but they
would have this out between them. Xena sighed. That had been only the first of a long string of confrontations
with Armand. Gods, the boy learned to love arguing and he had as quick a mind
as she had ever run across.
The strange thing was that he actually fought back better as their points of
view gradually converged. The years she spent with Armand were some of the most
vocal she could recall.
His face wouldn't come clearly to mind save that halo of gold he called hair
and a set of high sharp cheekbones, but some of their discussions, especially
those from the beginning of their friendship, still flitted about in the back
of her thoughts from time to time. Xena noticed him studying her, choosing his moment. The boy waited until
the camp was completely set up and his stomach was full.
"You fought right along side those men who attacked us." He finally spoke up
in the silence after she packed away the plates.
The warrior picked up a switch to poke at the low fire that stood between
them. "I attacked fully grown, properly trained knights who could defend
themselves." She responded finally. "The fact that you're still alive speaks
for me."
"But my friends are all gone." He complained with the kind of whine that
only teenagers seemed to be capable of.
She didn't even have to say it. Simply by lifting her dark brows Xena caused
the boy to blush and drop his eyes to the flames.
"That's different." He found his voice with a nervous clearing of his
throat. "Those people... that town... " He verbally stumbled, attempting to
find his place. "My master was on an errand from God."
Xena knew it was a mistake but his innocent arrogance choked a brittle snort
of amusement out of her.
"The Holy Land must be cleansed." In the face of her scorn the boy retreated
to the pat answers he had been listening to since being drawn into the cause."
The infidel can not be allowed control over the Holy Land. Christian knights
are doing God's work." His chin jutted out.
"I thought that was the duty of priests... God's work, I mean." She
observed. "I don't suppose anyone tried simply converting the infidels." Her
tone was sharper than the sword across her back. "But then robbing their dead
bodies wouldn't be part of the package that way... so what good would it
achieve?"
"It's not like that."
"But it should be so simple. You claim to have God on your side. Couldn't he
just wave his celestial arms and clear the land if it bothered him so much?"
"You're being ridiculous. God doesn't work that way?"
Xena smiled. "How do you know, boy?" She countered with a certain amount of
glee. "Because that's what you've been told since you were born." The warrior
answered for him, leaving no chance for him to interrupt. "Well the people of
this land were taught something not very different from the time of their first
breath. Who are you to decide which way is right for someone else? Unless God
himself steps down here and takes a hand in things it's just a matter of some
human being deciding what 'he thinks' is more important than what another human
being believes."
The boy sat back on his heels at the sincerity he sensed in her argument. In
his entire life he'd never heard a woman argue so vigorously about a
'principle' before. Some of what she had said made sense but still, he wasn't
ready to give up the argument quite yet. "But how is your revenge different? It
still sounds to me as if you are saying that your friends' lives were worth the
deaths of all the men you killed... just because they were your friends.
Shouldn't you have attempted to capture the Knights or chase them out of the
country... rather than simply killing them? Did you even consider any other
way to stop them or was killing them just easier?"
It was Xena's turn to sit back and stare. That sounded like something
Gabrielle might have said. Now she not only had to contend with the effects of
him looking like her long dead son but he also sounded suspiciously like her
soulmate. The worst of it was that he actually had a valid point. Perhaps if
she'd taken the time and thought things through there might have been another
way to handle the bastards. She hadn't looked beyond the pure, emotional
satisfaction of slicing her enemies to ribbons. Her first instinct upon
discovering the massacre was to dig up her weapons and hunt down the offenders.
Xena hadn't tried to combat the murderous urge. The warrior realised that all
the years of believing that she had buried her murderous impulses with her
weapons was nothing more than self-delusion. "You're making me repeat myself."
Xena said in a level tone, not daring to betray to this child how much his
words had bothered her. "My friends were unarmed bystanders. Those knights were
trained killers who had already proven themselves butchers." Xena was knocked out of the remembrance by a jolt of guilt. At that moment
she couldn't help but parallel the situation she found herself in right now.
Yes, she was fighting soldiers, men well able to stand up for themselves... but
that wasn't always enough. Gabrielle had tried so hard to teach her that
motivations mattered as much, if not more than actions. The bard had time and
again reminded her soulmate that there was almost always another option if you
looked hard enough for it. Xena in turn had tried to pass those lessons along
to her young charge. She believed those lessons, yet here she was teetering so
close to the brink of unthinking vengeance without even realising how near to
falling she was.
[Gods!] The warrior dropped into a crouch, pressing her hands to her
forehead. When had the situation escaped her so completely? It was time to take
a few steps back and re-examine the circumstances she now found herself in.
Word had come to her at the last place she stopped that Teresa's husband, Major
Sharpe, was attempting to make contact. Tomorrow, Xena decided, tomorrow she
was going to pass everything she knew about what the French were up to into
English hands then back away. It could be that she would return to the fight
but Xena needed to make that choice with a clear head and the only way to clear
her head was put some distance between herself and the source of her anger.
The warrior straightened up and set to the business of packing up camp once
more.
Sir Arthur Wellesley: "You've just done me a damn good turn, Sharpe. Now
I'm going to do you a damn bad one."
Lord Wellington concluded his careful search of the maps and documents
in the command tent. As far as he could tell no papers had disappeared with the
spy impersonating Colonel Mulder. That situation had both an up and down side
to it. Nothing too complex was likely to have been absorbed by the spy for the
benefit of the French... but on the other hand, it gave them no clue as to
exactly where Krycek had concentrated his efforts.
The tent door flapped a warning before Hogan let himself into the lamp-lit
confines. He dropped into a canvas chair that creaked ominously under his heavy
frame. "I had a long chat with young Smithers." The spymaster exhaled loudly.
"It seems that Krycek had a bit more leisure to study his way through your
papers than we first suspected."
Wellesley wearily raised his face and bestowed an annoyed frown on his
friend. This situation continued to worsen at every corner. "How much more
time?"
"A couple of hours but it was in the middle of the night so he was hampered
by a lack of light." Hogan leaned back, joining his hands across his stomach.
"Lieutenant Smithers needs to be reassigned somewhere out of the way. Pity, the
youngster was proving to be a rather effective aide in all other regards.
Perhaps we could toss him off to General Burns since that Simpson fellow didn't
work out."
"Simply reassigned?" Wellesley snapped. "We should court-martial the little
imbecile. I should never have accepted his service no matter who his father is.
I can't abide fools or traitors."
"More a fool than a traitor in this case." The spymaster corrected. "He's
guilty of bad judgement, yes... but then I can't help but bear some
responsibility for not finding the man out." His aggravation wasn't obvious in
his voice but rather in his perturbed expression.
"I think you've made a mistake in this situation, Michael. Perhaps it would
be best to send an organised chase to find Krycek after all." The Commander of
the forces mused aloud.
"To be honest, I doubt anyone we have would be more effective than our new
colonial officer in this circumstance. I consider myself a fair good judge of
determination." He smiled. "Colonel Mulder won't be back until the Krycek
situation is resolved." His laugh was low in his wide chest. "I enjoy baptising
a new agent in a sink or swim situation. It's the best way to get the measure
of a man. The only regret I do have is that he seems to have dragged Lord
Thistlemoor's daughter along on his quest for some odd reason. Perhaps he's
taken the girl as camouflage. It wasn't something I expected." Hogan poked
about inside his jacket looking for his snuffbox. "Which I should take as a
good sign actually. If the man can surprise me, he has the capacity to surprise
the enemy."
"Did you tell Mulder about ALL the details of the job we assigned the spy?"
Wellington asked, leaning back to study the man across from him.
The heavy head tilted. "I think I managed to convey everything we required
although Miss Scully's presence made it a bit awkward. She was in a slight
muddle and didn't quite catch all the things I confided in him. Mulder's
expression was priceless... trying to decide if me giving him the mission
outline meant that I wanted him to go... despite your orders." Hogan chuckled.
"The thing that worries me is that Krycek may still be with Sharpe's lot when
they run across the Princesa. We can be sure the mission will take on a twist
or two if that's the case. I doubt a French spy will hold much affection for
such a passionate Spanish partisan... one that's done what she's said to have
done."
"That would be a bother. I really would prefer to talk to the woman.
Still... " Wellesley shrugged and began rolling up maps, preparing to lock them
away for the night. He stopped in mid-motion and frowned once more. "Between
Sharpe, the spy, Mulder and the Princesa... " He curled his upper lip. "That's
too many volatile tempers mixing about uncertainly. I dislike it. It lacks
organisation." The Lord considered before continuing. "I'm also a bit worried
we've thrown Sharpe in over his head this time. It would be a real shame to
loose the man on such unimportant side-trip as this."
"Not to worry, Milord. I've got a very good feeling about the whole
situation. Trust me. This is going to work out quite nicely. I'm sure of it."
MULDER: "But if a man's character is his fate, it's not a choice but a
calling. Sometimes the weight of this burden causes us to falter. From the
fragile fortress of our mind. Allowing the monster without to turn within. We
are left alone staring into the abyss. Into the laughing face of madness."
He could have taken his boots off to run in the stream but that meant
risking damage to his feet. So now he had to trudge along in sopping wet boots,
trying his best not to leave a trail. [I hate my life.] Aleksandr grouched
internally. " Mudilo... dolboy'eb... khueplet." He whispered a curse at
himself to punctuate every squishing step.
A rustle of movement off to the side froze him in place. Alek had left
behind all the weapons he had taken from Fox except for his belt knife. His
left hand rested on that bulky hilt now, but with his right Aleksandr fished
one of the small throwing daggers he favoured out of his boot. Dropping into a
crouch brought his eyes level with the cause of his anxiety. A fat badger
snuffled once then lumbered off.
[I absolutely hate my life.] He snarled, setting off once more. If he
thought for a moment that the nuns who ran the school his siblings were
attending would actually protect the kids...he'd disappear. But Alek knew
better. Ducos would pull Tatyana and Dimitri out of their haven and toss them
to the wolves if something happened to Aleksandr. In the beginning the young man had mostly worked on the eastern front of
Napoleon's campaign. He had thought that little could feel worse than being
wielded as a weapon against his countrymen. He learned quickly.
Ducos had used the same method Malais had instituted to go about the
breaking of Aleksandr, only with more style and on a far grander scale. Each
assignment was slightly more despicable than the one before it until one
evening Alek came to the realisation that there was almost no act he hesitated
to perform.
The exact moment of revelation was engraved in his memory and brought a
threat of nausea to him whenever it impinged on his consciousness.
Helena had the misfortune of having a rather plain face, a militarily
important father, and a careless, social-centred aunt. All that and her
painfully, shy disposition made Aleksandr's job easy.
The Aunt was forever throwing large parties whenever the Father wasn't
around to put the brakes on. Yet another unfamiliar face in the crowd at one of
the grand affairs didn't provoke any consternation.
Aleksandr was careful that he drew the notice of no one except his intended
target, who stood quite alone near the wall of one of the largest, most crowded
rooms. According to the information he was able to gather the daughter was the
easiest way into the old man's private office. He just had to convince her to
take him to it and unlock the door.
Convincing the foolhardy teenager to slip away from the rest of the
partygoers wasn't difficult. It was the work of little over two hours. A few
lines of poetry, some intense allusions to love at first sight and the gentle
brush of his fingertips up her bare arm had done the trick. Helena had soaked
up handsome Aleksandr's attention with amazed pleasure.
"... somewhere private, I want to... talk to you... alone." Alek coaxed,
whispering. Tossing a wary glance over at the nearby crowd, he caressed the
inside of her wrist. "Dear lady."
Helena shrugged against the tickle his breath provoked. "There are servants
all over the place. Maybe we could go out into the garden?" That would provide
a few barriers to casual viewer.
"But covering up these exquisite shoulders with a shawl would break my
heart." He protested. "There must be somewhere in the manor that no one but you
can go, Helena... precious."
"We shouldn't... "
"I've something I want to ask you." The web of deception expanded.
"Something a man needs to ask a woman in privacy."
"What is it?"
"I want to change your life, my dearest, link it to mine." What more potent
incitement could there be to a girl in her situation. "Please, somewhere
private. The proposal I wish to make... please, darling." He chose his words
carefully, tempting her further.
Helena's breath caught. "Maybe Daddy's office. I know where he keeps the
key... and no one goes in there." Father wasn't expected to return for another
two days.
"Purr-fect... " His breath tickled her ear, earning another nervous giggle.
She led the way through a curtained arch, down a hall, then up a narrow, hidden
stairway. Every stray sound had them pushing into whatever shadow was nearest.
In one of the shallow doorways Alek trailed a line of kisses down the curve of
her pale throat. It was both a distraction and a precursor.
In an unlit section of hallway Helena reached down into a vase and removed a
key. She looked both ways before unlocking the door. Her breath was coming in
short pants. "In here."
Aleksandr crowded her inside, locking the heavy door behind them.
At the sound of the bolt sliding into place Helena blushed furiously and
took a few steps to distance them. She twisted her fingers together in front of
herself and walked over to the window. The curtains were barely parted,
allowing in just enough moonlight to keep from bumping into the furniture. "You
can see the rose gardens from this window." Helena looked out.
Alek quietly withdrew a knife from where it was sheathed inside his belt. He
snuggled himself up against the girl's back, his left arm circling around to
hold her steady. Helena sighed and leaned into the embrace. A delighted noise
escaped her. The razor edge of his knife was so sharp she didn't even realise
at first it was cutting her. The slice traced a not so different path from his
earlier kisses.
Helena shook him off with a violent shudder as the wash of hot blood
registered. She barely had time to turn around before collapsing to floor.
Shocked, accusing eyes stared up him. Her mouth opened but no sound emerged.
One hand clutched at him briefly before going limp.
The spy gazed down at what he had just done. The girl's lifeless eyes
continued to reproach him. Alek raised the bloody knife in surprise. When had
he decided to slice rather than smash the hilt into the back of her skull?
Admittedly, this was more convenient... he wouldn't have to worry about leaving
a witness...
What was left of his conscience let out a thin wail of despair. [ Oh my God!
Oh my God! Oh my God! ] He'd just killed a sixteen-year-old girl for the sake
of making his job a little easier. After the killing Alek had spent an hour vomiting up what felt like
everything he had ever eaten in his life. Still, he had pulled himself together
like a good little operative and gone on to thoroughly ransack the father's
office. Upon his return to Paris...Aleksandr threw the bundle of stolen documents
at Ducos and ran all the way to the nun's school. He didn't dare tell his
beloved sister exactly what he had done. So while Tatyana sat on the floor,
tucked in the back corner of the tiniest chapel on the school grounds, her
elder brother simply laid his head in her lap and cried.
A hand about the size of cold, dead Helena's smoothed through his soft hair.
Unfortunately Tatyana's attempts at comfort only caused more guilt to gnaw at
his intestines.
"My poor, sweet Sacha." She murmured. The familiarity of her gentle Russian
almost filled an empty spot in his soul. "What have they done to you this time,
my darling?"
"I'm evil, Tati." Alek whispered into the coarse cloth of her skirt. "I've
lost my soul."
Tatyana bent over him in a protective curl. "Then stop, my love. You don't
have to do what they want anymore." She kissed the tip of his ear. "They can't
hurt Dima and I here in the convent."
The foolish trust in that sentence stilled him. Aleksandr didn't want to rip
that false sense of security away from his little sister. "Oh, Tati." He sat up
to study her delicate face. It would be so much worse for her now than it would
have been when they were first taken. Time was maturing her from a vaguely
pretty child into something truly exquisite. Alek had taken great pains to make
sure that Malais and Ducos didn't pay any attention to the teenage girl the few
times that his carelessness had allowed their paths to cross over the last few
years.
"What is it, Sacha?" His young sister tipped her head to one side and long,
ebony hair tumbled down in an unconsciously elegant movement.
"You look just like Mama." He announced in breathless amazement. The back of
his hand scrubbed the remains of his tears away.
Her head shook in denial. The last time she'd had access to a mirror she'd
been closer to the look of all the other kids in the family but for her black
hair. "You're the only one who ever looked like Mama, Sacha-love. My face is
too fat and I've got Papa's legs and shoulders."
Aleksandr stood slowly, drawing his sister up with him by her elbows. "Look,
my angel." The top of her head was now up to his chin. "See how tall you've
grown." He gathered her into his arms, holding on desperately. "You're
absolutely beautiful." The statement held more terror than any other emotion.
"I'm afraid I might not be clever enough to protect you properly, Tati."
Tatyana clung, stroking his back to soothe the fear she sensed in him.
"Hush, my darling, I trust you. You've taken care of us so far."
One of the nuns had chosen that moment to come clucking into the tiny
chapel. At the sight of the pose they had fallen into threats of eternal
damnation as well as physical punishment bellowed out. Aleksandr had been
promptly sent on his way with a whack on the back of his head. [I hate my life.] His brain repeated yet again.
His feet hurt, he wasn't anywhere near certain that he was going in the
right direction, and returning to Paris meant he'd have to deal with Malais
again. His last debriefing had taken place in the field and Ducos had sent him
right back out. After this long an absence the Sergeant was sure to feel the
need to re-establish his ownership.
[You had a little fun at the expense of Fox and Sharpe...] Aleksandr
reminded himself. [Now it's time to pay the bill.] He stopped to look up at the
moon and stars, trying to find his bearings. "Pay attention!" Came the roar in French. Malais' bear-like swipe caught
him off guard and suddenly the night sky didn't hold much interest. Alek gazed
hopelessly at the butter-dull, flat-ended knife that Malais had handed him.
Aleksandr was a quick study. Straddling the line between displaying his
considerable skill with the blade and not fighting back too effectively wore at
him more every time they practised. Sometimes it was just easier to annoy
Malais and get to the beating promptly since he knew it was coming no matter
how the mock battle ended.
"Now fight!" The Sergeant ordered.
"Should I win or lose?" The younger man asked in a far too superior tone. "I
could do either. You pick." Yes, there was the mad gleam in his handler's eyes.
Alek dropped the useless knife and braced for the onslaught. Unfortunately it
didn't come as quickly as usual.
"You treacherous, little animal." Malais had hesitated long enough to notice
the look of weary acceptance on his pet's face. "We should do something
different tonight, I think." The Sergeant seized and twisted one of Aleksandr's
wrists. "How does my whore feel about fire?" Francois dragged his prisoner over
to the small campfire, then squatted to heat his own knife over the red coals.
"Nyet!" Panic let the Russian word escape before he forced himself back to
using French. "Major Ducos said no more marks." Alek reminded the angry man in
a desperate tone, squirming frantically. "He said not to do anything that
wouldn't heal quickly... I have to look nice for my next assignment."
Malais' cursing nearly turned the air blue. Frustration was clearly
illustrated on the roughly featured face. How could the Sergeant be expected to
maintain discipline with the worm's siblings in Paris and the Russian secure in
the knowledge that he was safe from too much damage? Aleksandr stopped fighting
to escape and almost started to relax but then a look of pleasure erased
Malais' confusion.
"Well then, how about we get you all smooth and pretty for your next job?"
The Sergeant suggested with a vicious grin. He tore Alek's thin shirt open,
curled one of the sparse hairs on the young man's chest about his finger, and
yanked.
The Russian let out a brief squeak of surprise at the pinprick of pain.
"Not so much here to remove." Malais observed. "But then we know where
there's a whole bush you could stand to lose, don't we, Field mouse?} Malais'
smile was a study a cruel satisfaction. Aleksandr turned in what seemed to be a more easterly direction. If what
Sharpe's informant had told them was accurate, he should be able to find the
French column by dawn.
It was a relief not to have to keep up his Mulder impersonation any longer.
[Small mercies.] Alek mused. [Any satisfaction I have is made up of small
mercies.] He kicked a tree root as he passed it. [God, I hate my life.]
La Princesa
Guerrera IV
by Carla Jane and Jim
SCULLY: "I was just thinking about something that a man said to me.
That the dead speak to us from beyond the grave, that that what's conscience
is."
