Part Four

"I am serious. Will you have me?" The eyes were reflecting the starlight like polished jet in the grave, sweet face of the prince. Oromenes waited, the sounds of the horses' hooves and the creak of their harness filling the night.

"I will have you. Whether your path leads to a peasants' hut, Amasis palace or a shallow grave I will follow you." Malache's voice was low and dangerous, speaking of a passion beyond control.

"You heard, Gabrielle?" Oromenes asked.

"I heard, but I don't believe it. Are all you Harrians trained as poets? You say these things to each other at the drop of a hat. I have to practically get murdered for Xena to say anything like that." Gabrielle said.

Oromenes snorted.

"What?" Gabrielle asked, defensively.

"Oh, nothing." Oromenes said lightly, and Malache hit her.

"Come on! I just recorded the future of your dynasty. If you want her to say yes in the official records, you tell me what you mean."

"I've heard much about the Lord Chabouk. I've never heard that she is a fool. Doesn't she appreciate you?" Oromenes asked.

"Xena would give her life for me." Gabrielle said, angrily.

Oromenes smiled in approval. "You defend her. A good sign. Shall I speak with her?"

Gabrielle pictured the slender prince facing down the towering warrior, lecturing her on her romantic shortcomings, and laughed out loud. "I don't think that's wise."

"Malache tells me that you are not lovers." Oromenes said, and Malache swatted her again.

"No, it's all right, you don't have to keep hitting Oromenes. We aren't yet. But with Malache's instruction I aim to change that." Gabrielle's assertion was met with the prince's brilliant smile.

"An ambush! The Chabouk won't know what hit her."

Gabrielle took a turn driving the team, while Malache and Oromenes lay down in the bed of the wagon. She concentrated on the road before her, on the leather in her hands, on the even clopping of the hooves. Gabrielle tried not to hear the sounds of Malache's and Oromenes' lovemaking. She sighed, and thought of Xena. A space of time passed in quietude, the desert hills brining their own breathing and sighing to accompany her. Gabrielle thought she heard the bark of a fox, and off in the distance the call of an owl. Something coughed on the cliffs above, a leopard, she thought. This is a far cry from the Red City as far as nightlife, but Malache's sure doing her best to turn Oromenes into a model Harrian- the bard thought, envious.

The wagon bed creaked and Malache climbed onto the bench and sat down next to Gabrielle. In the bed of the wagon Oromenes slept, exhausted, one brown arm flung across her face. "The sweetness of youth. They tire so quickly." Malache said, with a fond smile at the prince.

"I guess its something that comes with practice?" Gabrielle asked.

Malache took the reins. "Does Xena teach you fighting skills?" Malache asked, looking out over the backs of the horses. The lantern bobbed on its pole, the outriders were blue shadows at the edge of the circle of buttery light.

"We train with the staff. She shows me moves, patterned defenses, things like that."

"Do fights happen according to a pattern?" Malache asked.

"No. A fight's all chaos and scrambling. You have to be creative." Gabrielle said, remembering how creative Xena could get in battle.

"These moves she's shown you. You can do them as well as she can?"

Gabrielle laughed. "Of course not!"

"Because of her height, her strength, her experience?" Malache surmised.

Gabrielle shook her head. "I've seen Xena outfight giants and titans, who more than outmatch her height and strength. It's her brain, her fighting spirit. She never gives up." Gabrielle paused a moment, looking at Malache. "Okay, I get it. It's not about technique."

"You bring who you are. You will bring a pure heart, a generosity that's sets the soul at ease, and a love to make the gods envious. Trust that, Gabrielle."

Oromenes stirred, flinging an arm across the space where Malache had lain. She groped, her hand closing on empty air, and woke. She heard Gabrielle and Malache deep in conversation on the bench. "Tap here?" Gabrielle asked, touching her neck.

Malache shook her heard, indicating a different spot on her own neck with two fingers. "Here. In the space between the pulse at first. Then what?"

"Drawing of the lion's claws across the back, gathering the ribs, bring the touch from the soles of the feet, up the meridian of the thigh." Gabrielle listed dutifully.

"Why?" Malache asked.

"That will draw the energy back to the heart." Gabrielle said, delighted she remembered all of it. They noticed Oromenes listening.

"Dummuzi awakes." Malache said, with a wicked grin.

"You've been conspiring against the Chabouk again, haven't you." The prince said, with a sly smile at Gabrielle.

"How can you tell?" Gabrielle asked.

"You have the look."

"I've promised her the story of our first night, beloved. You can help me, now that you are awake." Malache said.

Gabrielle worried that it was too intimate of a request, but Oromenes smiled and stroked Malache's arm. "Very well. Let me begin."

The prince closed her eyes like a storyteller in a marketplace.

It was my sixteenth birthday. My uncle Azarnes had arraigned my initiation, with a Harlot who had presided at the initiation of several of my brothers. I had taken to spending more and more time in the hills, alone with Arun, silent so long I nearly lost the habit of human speech. I think Azarnes welcomed the initiation for its humanity, fearing I had gone strange and mystic in the desert. He wanted to see appetite in me, or so he said.

'Your discipline is commendable. But I never see you roused to anger, moved to tears. You take food lightly and leave it with equal distance, you sleep little, never sing. You never ask after other companionship.' Said he.

I replied, 'I have you to lead my mind, Arun who hunts with me. My hunger for other things was never great.'

Azarnes frowned at this. 'A King must understand his people, their passions and their humanity. A king must understand the bounty of the Goddess and her love.' He said to me, disturbed. I didn't know why, perhaps he wished me to speak more, but I only watched him with attention. At last he said 'You will be initiated.'

I never questioned the fact of my birth. I was a singular creature, in the life I had always known. How could it seem strange to me? I loved Azarnes and knew enough not to tell him that, it made his face change and twist with things I couldn't follow. So I was dutiful, and rode with him to the temple.

He watched me dismount, his face dark, congested with words he wouldn't say, or could not. I stood at his stirrup, waiting for him to speak. 'You will be fine Oromenes.' He said to me. I nodded, not understanding how I couldn't be fine. 'The Harlot is skilled, and sworn to silence. Several of your brothers went to her.' Again I waited for him to say why he truly wished. This information was all one to me.

What matter if my brothers were initiated by this Harlot? I'd never known them, nor her. I'd read of the initiation rite, and thought I knew what to expect. The frenzy of the blood was a stranger to me, I was somehow better than that, apart from it.

Finally, Azarnes composure broke. 'Is there anything you want to ask me?' He said. I shook my head no. 'It will be different for you. With your birth.' He meant that I was a girl.

He seemed to need reassurance, so I smiled for him. 'I will make you proud, Uncle.'

He leaned from his saddle and clasped my shoulder. 'Har's blessing on you. You are like my own son.' He rode a short way off, watching me as I went into the temple."

Oromenes opened her black eyes and grinned at Malache. "You should tell this part."

Malache acquiesced.

"I found the temple to be rustic. I prepared everything myself, from the wine tables and the bath oils, the tepid water drawn after a hot dusty day. Rose petals floated on the surface, along with Lady's Tears, Dummuzi's flower. I burned a handful of resins local to Baluchis. The smoke was strange, spicy. The silence of the temple, the secrecy of the whole arraignment was a mystery. It actually heightened my anticipation. I wondered who this boy was, to merit this level of privacy. I considered that he might be deformed, ill favored. No matter, Har loved all. Then I heard the scraping of sandals on the stone floor.

My first thought was- he's not deformed. Standing there was the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen, slender, graceful, hair like a sheet of the night sky lit with blue points, black eyes with the look of eagles.

Oromenes laughed and interrupted Malache. "You exaggerate. I was a lanky, coal haired savage with no human grace. I all but sniffed the air and came in on all fours."

You were a stag seen at dawn on the edge of a hill. You were a panther, caught at its stealthy approach. I saw you and I wanted to cry out, my heart wanted to tear itself from my breast and cast itself at your feet. I'd never reacted thus to anyone in all my years of training. I saw this go-youth and a wind blew right through me, taking my soul with it. Har couldn't have been more moved, seeing Dummuzi.

The apparition stood watching me with great black eyes, frozen. It was then that I remembered myself. I was a Harlot, who should be offering welcome and ease to the startled youth, not falling apart gazing. Not trembling like a girl struck down unexpectedly by the arrows of love. My training took over. 'Welcome. I am Malache, come and sit.' I said. So this stag, poise don the brink of flight, was captured by my voice and came into the chamber. Silence of the desert, of the wild things of the hills was on this youth like a cloak. My voice seemed to elicit a response, so I spoke to calm, to entice. I offered wine and fruit, touching the prince's hand as I gave the cup, watching as the choice of figs or oranges was made. When my fingers brushed the smooth brown skin of those strong hands, the prince shivered.

I was pleased by that, I admit. I wanted to know that I had an effect on this one. For reasons of my own, quite apart from the love of Har, I wanted to captivate the prince in every way. I watched as the prince ate slices of orange, placing them whole between finely carved lips. I looked at the elegant jawline, the curve of neck, and I knew Oromenes secret. My sweet youth was a girl."

Oromenes interrupted Malache again. "You remember me too grandly. I'll tell Gabrielle the way it happened.

I walked into the doorway, thinking of Azarnes, of his evident concern for me, and hoped I had eased his mind. I wasn't thinking about what was waiting for me. And I looked up and saw a Goddess. She was lighting the lamps, one arm stretched out with the taper above her head, red hair like life's blood falling down her back, the skin of her shoulders bare through her Harlot's gown. Muscles moved under her skin like serpents, the muscles of a dancer, long and sleek. Her gown, transparent, moved like water across her body as she touched each lamp with flame. Her beauty was a javelin through my heart, I who lived in the places of emptiness and quiet unto death. I was faced with the pure vitality of life made flesh and it's reality overwhelmed me.

I wanted to cry out, to flee, to kneel and beg Har to take this gift from me, I wasn't great enough for it. Then she looked at me, eyes of malachite, and I knew she must think me a perfect fool, so long did she gaze on me in silence. I couldn't speak. How did I address the Goddess, when prayer had fled me? She smiled at me, and the beating of my heart in response nearly knocked me from my feet. She spoke, welcoming me. I was mesmerized by her voice. To have never known hunger, and become in the space of an instant a starving youth is terrifying. My body was a stranger to me, my thoughts chaos and night. I sat, I took what she handed me, and tried not to faint when she sat near me. I said her name in my mind, again and again- Malache. She fed me fruit, I ate without thinking of it. When her fingers brushed mine in handing me a winecup, I trembled and looked away. My skin was a traitor, responding to her touch, nigh begging for it to be repeated. This was not like what I'd read. When she, casually, leaned against me in reaching for my cup, my heart collapsed, leaving a hole in my chest. Let me follow you wherever you go- I wanted to say, but hadn't yet uttered a word. I am yours, my eyes pledged her, until Death takes me. She touched me on the wrist, a little thing, but I couldn't breath from it.

'The night is warm. Come, relax in the bath with me.' She said, and I so loved the sound of her voice that I nodded before the words made sense. She rose and walked to the bath. Ensorcelled, I followed, and watched her slide the gown off her shoulders, unsheathing her loveliness. It hurts my eyes, this body like a golden flame, a woman. And it reminded me of who I was. She expected a boy. She lowered herself into the water, watching me with green eyes too candid to hide from. 'Don't be shy. You are loved here, beautiful youth.'

I closed my eyes in agony, speaking my first words. 'I am not what you think.' I managed to choke out.

She smiled at me. 'Oromenes.' She said, and my name came into being only when she said it. 'I know who you are. You need have no fear.'

Still I hesitated. How could she know? None but Azarnes knew, in all the world. And my father Amasis, who I'd never met. Malache looked at me, trembling on the brink of flight, and stepped out of the pool. As you can suspect, it distracted me wholly, the water clinging to her dancer's body. She had such a look of compassion on her face that it halted me. 'Oh my sweet girl. You are safe here.' She knew. And it broke me, as nothing in the silence of my youth had prepared me for this single sentence. So she took me in her arms to comfort me. The heat of her body, her arms around me, the force of my desire nearly knocked me to the floor. I kissed her and the embrace changed. Her desire met my own.

On the wagon seat, Oromenes gazed out into the night. The spaces between small sounds grew, and stretched, until it felt like speech to Gabrielle's ears. Malache took up where Oromenes left off. "When I told her that I knew, and that she was safe, the surprise on her face was enough to cause me pain."

I held out my arms to her to still her trembling, my heart already captured by her. I was unwilling to let her suffer for a moment. Compassion, Oromenes terms it. Yet, already I felt her agony like a lance through my chest.

Where is the compassion, in comforting a part of yourself? She relaxed at my touch with a sigh that drew my breath from me, sharply. She came completely into my arms, pressing her body against me. I had expected hesitancy, the careful drawing out of a shy youth, as I might do with any Harrian boy. But she wasn't Harrian so much as feral, once touched, unashamed of her desire. Oromenes kissed me with a passion that banished thought, technique, training. I was no longer a Priestess of Har initiating a royal youth. I was a woman kissing her beloved for the first time. It was a wonder we made it to the bed.

My feral youth, my girl prince pressed me down, covering my body with her own. She kissed me on my neck, my shoulders and breasts. I could think only of having more of her available to me. I tore the vest from her as she embraced me, both of us in the grip of a fever that left no subtlety. The sash and tunic followed, leaving only trousers and sandals. I sat up and grabbed her shoulders, pressing her down to the bed.

Something of my training reasserted itself. I removed her sandals efficiently and reached for her trousers. I hesitated, looking first into the black eyes of this splendid girl, afraid that my mad rush to ravish her would do her harm. This wasn't an initiation, it was a debauch, my own passion galloping roughshod over everything I'd learned. Oromenes obliged me by unhooking her trousers and sliding them off, impatient. That was the answer I needed. Oromenes seized me with strong hand and drew me back down.

A portion of my brain reminded me that I was the Priestess, I was supposed to be pleasuring the prince in a slow banquet of delights, not writhing under her in my own frenzy. That voice soon stilled. In the end I lay in my prince's arms, glorified, as she propped herself on an elbow above me.

'You are magnificent. Rose and gold and green, like the dawn on the hills, the gilded edges of sun on the first grass of spring.' This was quite a speech from a girl who had scarcely uttered a word until now. Something had shifted for her, a confidence there that rulers and Harlots have.

'You play with me. You are a poet, not a youth from the wastelands.' I said to her, trying to keep my heart about me.

'I am yours, whatever I am.' Said the splendid youth. This was not how initiations went. As a Harlot, I'd had many boys confess their love for me, after I pleased them. It was expected. We were supposed to smile, speak of the love of Har, and continue. Har hadn't been mentioned once this night. These words, from this girl, went right through me. I'd been wanting to hear them, I discovered, without knowing how much. It started tears in my eyes, which panicked the prince. 'Don't cry, forgive me if I spoke out of turn-'

I put a finger to her lips. 'I weep from happiness, beloved. I don't understand, but before Har, I am yours.' It was true, and the saying of it released me. I lay my prince back on the bed and taught her such pleasure as was mine to give, as a Harlot and a woman in love. After, I held her to me as she slept, exhausted. Trying not to think about what we had begun.

Oromenes laughed, the sound a delight. "Trying not to think, when all I could do was think. When Azarnes met me the next morning, he found me kissing the Harlot, both of us unable to let go. Whatever he had expected, this wasn't it. 'Oromenes.' he said, confused. I told him that I would come. I whispered to Malache that she was my soul, that I would wait for her to send word. So we parted."

Gabrielle let out along breath. "That's it? So we parted? Come on, Oromenes! What about going home, what did Azarnes think now?"

"I went back to the fortress a stranger to Azarnes. He had expected the initiation to make me human, but it made me too human. I refused food and sleep, without any distance from the world. I wouldn't hunt, or read. I was haunted, by a pair of malachite eyes, by soft flesh moving under me. Three months of my sighing and moaning, and he'd had enough. 'Oromenes. You wander these halls like a ghost, brooding and sighing. You will not speak, nor eat, nor rest.' said my poor uncle.

I had become, in other words, a typical youth, a creature made mad by emotion, flowing from rage to despair to love in a moment. I knew that Azarnes did love me, when he gave me the box of letters he had hidden from me for three months. 'I had hoped to spare you this.' He said, knowing full well it was already beyond that. I met Malache at the temple, and continued to do so till now. So long, we have lived on scraps from the table." Oromenes said. Malache took her hand. "No longer."

The fortress was quiet. Too quiet, Xena thought. She ran lightly to the open gate, to find the body of the ancient servant, his throat cut. She knelt and touched the blood- cool. He'd been dead for hours. A quick search of the fortress turned up one more body, that of the cook. The rooms were whole, not ransacked. Weapons were missing from the pegs on the wall. Had they ridden out before Megabyzus' men had arrived, and where were they?- Xena thought.

Xena moved instinctively, ducking into a roll, coming up with her sword ready. The man struck at her again. She deflected the blow, and felled him with a kick to the jaw. Her blade kissed his neck below the chin. "Your name and business, or I cut you a new mouth."

His neck worked convulsively, choking on rage. "You break into my home, murder my servants, steal my family and demand my name?"

Xena withdrew the point a finger's breadth. "I didn't kill your servants. You didn't answer my question."

"Azarnes, damn your eyes, Lord of this place."

"Oromenes uncle." Xena said, sheathing her sword. "I'm Xena."

Recognition flooded his face. "The Lord Chabouk. I've heard of you. Why are you here?"

Xena extended a hand, helping him up. "Megabyzus figured out the prophecy and came after Oromenes. I came after Megabyzus."

Azarnes eyes widened. "Oromenes is the true heir? "

Xena smiled, tightly. "Looks like it. But Megabyzus wants to get rid of her."

"Her. So you know." Azarnes said, heavily.

"I'm a friend of Malache's. She and Gabrielle came out here to get Oromenes. Do you know where they are?"

Azarnes shook his head. "I've only just returned from business trip, to find you, the corpses of my servants, and no Oromenes. I didn't know his Harlot had come." There was an edge of annoyance in his voice when he spoke of Malache, not outright disapproval, but an old irritation.

"They must have set out before Megabyzus men got here. I passed a party on the road and killed most of them. They didn't go back that way." Xena said, looking around the room for a clue.

"Oromenes lives in the hills. He would take them on he hunting track to cut time off the journey." Azarnes said.

Xena frowned. "Then Megabyzus has them, or is on their trail."

The hawk faced man and the grim warrior sized one another up. Azarnes was a vigorous man in his fifties, thickly muscled and seamed with scars of old campaigns. His full beard and mustache hid a mouth firm with discipline. His eyes were small, black as oil and as cold. He was the first Harrian Xena had seen who had no softness about him, all angled and hard lines, from his plain mail coat to the straight sword that rode his hip. He looked at Xena's armor, the dust and blood fresh on them, and nodded in approval. He tore a desert bow off the wall. In the doorway they heard a scraping sound.

Both warriors wheeled in tandem, swords blooming in their hands. Xena saw that it was a leopard and tensed to strike, but to her amazement, Azarnes lowered his blade. "It is Arun, Oromenes' cat." He held out a large hand, the leopard came and licked it.

"Bring him. he can help us track them." Xena said.

Azarnes led Xena and Arun to the hill track taken by Megabyzus' party. He showed the keen eye of a hunter, Xena noted approvingly, and he worked in efficient silence, assuming that she knew her part. Xena thumbed the edge of her blade, eager to get to her work. Azarnes was like an old soldier called up from retirement. All his skills were in place, just under the surface. They rode in grim silence, each driven by personal demons that did not allow for rest. For two hours they ventured deeper into the hills, the path rising up, flanked by charcoal and scarlet walls of stone. The path bore marks of a large party of armed men passing by, not long before. A cast nail from a horseshoe, the broken strap from a sandal, dung from the horses, all visible to the naked eye.

Azarnes didn't have to dismount to read the signs. "They're traveling fast, too fast to repair a thrown nail or broken strap. They never pause and break formation." He said, narrowing his eyes along the rock walls.

"If Gabrielle and Malache left the fortress last night, and Megabyzus came with the dawn, he's met them by now. I haven't see any signs of a struggle, though." Xena said.

"He wouldn't take the time to conceal it. He is a man moving in haste." Azarnes said. "That makes him dangerous."

"He hasn't been himself since he left the Red City. After killing Aspasia and riding out, he hasn't rested. His soldiers are starting to fight one another. The loan he got of men from Bessarius didn't know that he planned on kidnapping the true heir, and mutinied when they found out. He's probably trying to push on to the City before his force disintegrates." Xena said.

Azarnes pulled up his horse and dismounted. "Look." It was the remains of a wagon, wheels broken on their axle, bench smashed. Two horses lay in the traces, pincushion with arrows.

Xena swung down from the saddle, examining the site. Farther off lay the bodies of the two Ethiopian outriders, hacked to pieces, their horses thrown down with them. A swift inventory, she looked up at Azarnes, questioning. He shook his head. The bodies of Gabrielle, Malache and Oromenes were not among the wreckage.

Azarnes was examining the bench. He held up a shred of cloth, turned rust with blood. "From Oromenes' vest." He tucked the cloth in his sleeve, called Arun, and remounted.

They set off at a gallop, thundering down the rocky defile, hooves striking sparks from the stone. He pulled his horse up abruptly, hauling it back onto its haunches, nearly unseating Xena who was right behind him. Without a word he started to climb the rock wall. Xena followed, her strong hands making easy work of the knife cuts Azarnes used for handholds. At the top of the wall Azarnes dropped to his belly, inching like a lizard still higher. Xena did the same, body pressed against the dun stone. She crawled next to Azarnes, who was shading his eyes with a hand. He pointed, and Xena's eyes followed. In a valley a few miles distant she could make out a large party of men, horses, and tents.

"Megabyzus. I don't know why he's stopped, during the day and set up camp." Azarnes black eyes hardened for a moment, and Xena could see his fear unmasked. It was the same as hers.

"We'll find them. But we have to think. If we go charging in there and start hacking, Megabyzus can kill them out of hand." Xena felt Azarnes frustration, barely contained. "I know. I want him dead, too. But we have an advantage. Persian or not, he has Harrian soldiers."

"I don't see where you are leading." Azarnes said, lowering his thick eyebrows.

"Harrians are ruled by emotion. Megabyzus can't kill Oromenes safely until they're in the Red City. We can't snatch the prince from the center of an armed camp, so we whittle down their numbers. Pick off a man at a time, let the rest know they've offended Har by seizing the true heir. I bet Megabyzus hasn't told them who Oromenes is, or that he means TO kill the prince. We can stir up his own men, keep them off balance until we can attack." Xena said.

Azarnes eyes glowed with hope and vengeance. He raised his head like a hound scenting blood. "You were born for this, Chabouk."

Gabrielle shifted in her chains, trying to find a comfortable way to sit with the leg manacles on. Megabyzus wasn't taking any chances with his captives. They were set in the center of camp, in a cage mounted on a cart used for transporting wild animals. The leg manacles were chained together, then run on a single chain into floor mounts. "How's Oromenes?" She asked Malache. The Harlot had the prince's body in her lap. A bloody bandage torn from the hem of Malache's gown was bound around the black hair. Malache shook her head, unable to speak, eyes wild and disbelieving.

The fight had been short and brutal. Megabyzus men had attacked at dawn, killing the outriders and their horses, then dropping the team in place. Arrows like a cloud of black flies fell all around the wagon, but none fell in. Riders drew alongside the faltering wagon, leaping from horseback. Gabrielle seized her staff, whirling into the wagon bed. One stroke took the legs out from under a soldier, toppling him back. The next caught a man in the throat, driving the air from him. Three blows in quick succession, head, ribs and knee, dropped a third. Malache grabbed for a bow, but was unused to fighting.

Oromenes, javelin in hand, closed breast to breast with soldiers clambering on the bench. Leaping, twisting, lithe as her namesake, the leopard prince slew men with the needle pointed blade, spearing them like boars. Gabrielle saw immediately that most of the soldiers headed straight for Oromenes, but then hesitated, not striking a killing blow. They must have orders to take us alive, Gabrielle thought, knocking another man from the wagon. That hampered their fighting, allowing Oromenes to kill a man for every three that grabbed for him.

The scion of Dummuzi's line fought well, shearing men as Dummuzi sheared wheat. The number of their men falling, the impossibility of laying hands on the dancing prince with the thin, wicked blade, drove the soldiers past caution. One had the thought not to brave the leopard, but distract. He grabbed Malache by the hair and put a knife to her throat.

"Drop the javelin or she dies." He roared. Oromenes head turned, caught the sight of Malache's throat under the steel. Two things happened in the same moment. The javelin went clattering away from a loose hand, the soldier behind Oromenes saw an opportunity and swung his mace, hard. It made a sound like a cooper's mallet, connecting with the back of the prince's head. Oromenes dropped like a felled ox. Boneless, the prince folded over the bench. Gabrielle, still fighting, heard Malache's scream of grief and denial, and looked. The soldiers stood motionless, frozen by the sound of that blow, knowing as fighting men that it had been too hard. The adrenaline of the fight was released by fear, crawling cold through their veins, of their commander and his orders. Gabrielle saw Malache cradling a bloody Oromenes, then the soldiers revived, swarming over them. They were bound and dragged to camp, deposited before the ornate tent of the satrap of Baluchis.

Megabyzus parted the tent flap with a hand full of jeweled rings. His armor was spotted with rubies, the winged sun of Ahura Mazda emblazoned on his breast. He's bold, Gabrielle thought, to discount the Goddess so blatantly. She hadn't seen him since the night she'd met Aspasia at the banquet. He was different. The cold, aloof arrogance was gone, the careful reserve of waiting was over. Power was tangible now about him, and growing. He projected an air of impatience, of ruthlessness. Whatever had held him in check was gone. He looked at Gabrielle, his eyes stopping in recognition.

"The Greek whore. I confess, I didn't expect you. The Chabouk was still in the City when I left."

"I'm sure she's preparing a warm welcome for you, Megabyzus." Gabrielle grated.

The satrap barked a short laugh, the sound quickly dying on his lips. He saw Oromenes' body in Malache's arms. He knelt, ignoring the blood and dirt smearing his gem encrusted armor, ignoring Malache's hissed warning, and looked at the wound. "Get the healer! Now!" He roared, spinning to his feet. Rage contorted his face. The guards, who had been proud of their catch up until that moment, blanched at the demon's look on their lord's face. "Who did this?"

"Senkus, Lord Satrap."

Megabyzus stalked over to Senkus, drew the sword from the guard's waist, and stabbed him through the heart. He cast the blade down on the soldier's body with a gesture of contempt. "I said alive! They are useless to me dead. The world is useless to me." He circled his men, eyes like a hungry wolf's. "Allow me to repeat myself. If these captives are harmed in any way, if this one dies, I will personally kill every third man in this guard. Then I will flay the rest and mount them on stakes along the road."

The healer arrived in time to hear Megabyzus promises, and nearly fainted. He knelt and tried to touch Oromenes, and was nearly torn to pieces by a vicious Malache. "Girl, let go! I need to-" he said, ducking blows.

"You will have to kill me, to take Oromenes from me." Malache snarled.

Gabrielle jerked away from her guard and ran to the Harlot. "Let them help, Malache." The grief on Malache's face was too close to home. She'd felt it, on the way to Mt. Nestos. Malache was almost past reasoning with.

"Oromenes…" she sobbed, covered in the prince's blood.

"They can save Oromenes' life. Let them try." Gabrielle drew her away and held her, as the healer probed the wound, then rebandaged it.

Megabyzus loomed over, impatient. "Will he live?"

The healer drew a fearful breath. "For now, Lord Satrap."

Megabyzus smiled, a look of renewed, savage joy. "Good!"

The healer added, "But if you move him, you will kill him. A ride in a wagon will be fatal."

Megabyzus swore oaths not heard outside Persia, that made the ears of the Harrians bleed. He raved for a full minute, blasphemies darkening the air, fists shaken to the sky, before he calmed. "Make camp here. When he revives, we will move. Anything moves near the cage, kill it."

A very nervous healer checked on them every hour, knowing that he faced a great reward if his patient lived, and an unspeakable death if he did not. The red haired woman would not let him touch more than Oromenes' head, and that clearly only with the Greek woman restraining her. Malache sat with Oromenes' head in her lap, the prince's blood a broad stain over her heart. Her eyes were the eyes of a woman without hope, looking out over fields of bones and ash from the burning grounds.

She's not here anymore, Gabrielle saw. She knew what it felt like. "Malache." Gabrielle said, but the Harlot didn't respond. "Malache, you have to listen to me. The grief...I know. It can swallow you whole, until you can't find your way back out. But Oromenes is alive. She's still alive."

The Harlot's eyes flickered, then focused on the bard. "Gabrielle?"

The bard knew that Malache had to focus, had to have a task or she'd slip back into that desolate landscape again. "Listen. We need to think about getting out of here. We need to get the guards closer, to find out what we can about Megabyzus' plans." She looked at the guards stationed in a square around the cage, twenty paces away. "We have to get them to come closer, interest them. Can you sing?" Malache, surprised, affirmed that she could. "Good. Pick a song soldiers would like. Something with fighting in it."

"There is an old Harrian war song, The Ballad of Burning Hills. It's often requested at banquets." Gabrielle motioned her to go on. Malache steeled herself, stroked Oromenes hair, then started to sing. Her voice, rough from weeping faltered, then steadied into the song.

The soldiers flinched at the unexpected sound and looked over their shoulders at the wagon. Gabrielle watched the reactions of the two guards on her side of the wagon. They shifted their position, slightly, and leaned in to listen to the ballad. Malache sang of an army moving through the hills returning from war, weary to the bone of travel and slaughter. Barbarians attacked them, swooping down from the mountains, laying waste to the villages they found, burning the ground as they went. The Harrian soldiers, only a company of men, but brave and beautiful as Har's warriors are, made a stand. They knew that they would die, holding back the barbarian invasion, but they were Har's Own, it was their land. So they stood, with fire licking about their thighs, so they died, on their feet.

It was gruesome, it was moving, and it was working. They had the soldier's attention. "Keep going! Something Harrian and heartrending." Gabrielle whispered. Malache began singing, in a voice so haunted Gabrielle started. She sang of a young woman going to a battlefield, seeking the body of her lover. Each broken corpse she turned over, each pair of dead eyes she searched, but she could not find the one she sought. Malache, covered in blood, with Oromenes dark head in her lap, was mesmerizing. The soldiers turned to look, and were captured by the sight, the Harlot cradling her lover, singing of a heart shattering grief. Gabrielle felt tears pour down her face, felt herself caught in the spell, unable to look away. The song died away in the desert air, leaving the soldiers staring. More than one had tears in his eyes.

In the hills, Azarnes looked at Xena. "What are they doing?"

The warrior smiled in pride and recognition of Gabrielle's mind at work. "Distracting the guards. We know that they are alive, at least." She finished tying her Chakram to the side of Arun's neck. "This will bring a few of them up here. Ready?" She asked. Azarnes grinned without humor, the showing of teeth in a death's head. He notched a barbed arrow to his bow, and signaled to the cat.

Arun launched into a run, springing down the rocky side of the hill. The fluid movement of the leopard and the sun striking sparks the metal tied to it's neck caught Gabrielle's eye. She looked up into the hill, and saw the leopard with the familiar circle of steel. Xena. The relief was great enough that she closed her eyes as if in prayer. Malache looked to Gabrielle. "Arun." Gabrielle whispered "Xena."

The soldiers, still shaking off the effects of Malache's song, spotted the leopard, noticed the flash of metal on its neck. They muttered superstitiously, still in the haunting mood of the song. The appearance of a leopard who paused on the hillside, watching them, regarding them, was unnatural. They argued about who would have to go investigate, choosing two by lots. When they did not return, two more were chosen to go and look for them. "Wandered off and got lost." The captain grumbled.

The guard on the wagon had gradually moved closer, standing within speaking distance from the cage. Malache sang more, a love ballad called "You are always with me." Gabrielle approved. If Xena were in hearing distance, she would know they were ready for her.

"Xena's whittling them down. If there is anything we can do to keep them frightened, we should." She whispered to Malache. Loudly, she asked. "Are these hills haunted?"

"It is the anger of Har for striking down the true heir." One of the soldiers, listening, flinched.

Gabrielle pounced on it. "That's it! They don't know who we are!" Gabrielle stood, holding the length of heavy chain that dragged her down. "This is Oromenes of Baluchis, of the blood of Dummuzi, the true heir! You struck down the next Great King at the command of a Persian."

This was too much. One of the soldiers turned around and asked her, horror on his face, "How can he be the true heir? Megabyzus said that- "

The guard captain stormed over, shouting at the top of his lungs. "No talking to the prisoners!" He hauled the guards back to their original distance. "You,no singing. You, no talking." He said, pointing at them.

Malache looked at him, eyes as cold as death. "Will you strike me down, as you struck down the next Great King?"

The captain wheeled and stalked off, directly to Megabyzus tent. The satrap was sitting in a folding campaign chair, staring into a cup of wine. Things were not going well, despite fifteen years of waiting and plotting. He'd gotten a satraps' rank, enticed that fool Harlot Aspasia into loving him, gotten close to the throne, and now, now in a stroke of cosmic luck, was poised to remove the heir and take his place. The Harrians would be bound by their own codes and Goddess worship, and would have to follow him. This kingdom needs a strong leader, he thought. Look what generations of weak kings have done to it, no new nations invaded and conquered, only treaties and goodwill. Har's very name was a byword for prosperity and luxury, for pleasure and civilization. Megabyzus cursed, without heat.

This was only a delay, he told himself. The boy would recover, they would go on to the City, where he could be promptly dispatched. Megabyzus thought about the trouble the boy was giving him, and decided that a painful death would be appropriate. A slow, painful death, after watching his courtesan flayed, he mused, enjoying the vision. If the boy were moved now, he'd die. So? He was set to die anyway, the satrap thought. If the bastard died a few leagues from Har, what matter? Maybe, he thought, I could ride in with a corpse. But what about the prophecy, the blood of Dummuzi? – he wondered, then shook himself. I have been in this godsforsaken kingdom too long, I'm starting to believe their religious babble. Megabyzus was a Persian, a follower of Ahura Mazda.

The overly emotional Goddess worship was grating to him, though he'd been operating in Har since his exile from Persepolis. The healer had just been by, telling him that the boy hadn't woken from the blow he'd gotten. Megabyzus was in a foul mood. He wished he could resurrect that idiot Senkus, so he could murder him again.

The captain stormed into the tent without announcing himself, forgetting that Megabyzus loathed being disturbed. "Lord Satrap!"

"Has the prisoner awoken?" Megabyzus asked.

The captain was taken aback at the question. "No, Lord."

"Then why do you disturb me? " The tone was mild, the cold air of the tomb blowing in the satraps' tent.

The captain swallowed. "There is a disturbance in the camp. The prisoners are singing." As soon as he spoke, the captain desperately wished for the words back.

"Singing." Megabyzus said, levelly.

"Men are missing. Four." The captain said, trying to rescue himself. The satrap hadn't killed him yet, but did appear to be playing with him.

"And what were these men doing?"

"They saw a leopard and went to find it."

Megabyzus threw the winecup at the captain, who was too surprised to duck. He watched the red wine pour down his armor, stunned that it wasn't his own life's blood. The satrap was up and out of the tent before the captain could react. He strode directly to the cage, discovering a soldier listening to Gabrielle, mid story. "So Oromenes raised the leopard as his companion, just as the prophecy says."

"Pull out the Greek and the Harlot. Be gentle with the boy."

The guards jumped two feet, hearing their lord's voice right behind them. They rushed to comply, pulling Oromenes away from Malache, who fought savagely. Megabyzus smote his sword hilt on the bars of the cage. "I said gently, you Harrian inbred backstreet castoff! You handle your future. Lay him down in the straw." It took four men, with manacles, to restrain Malache. "This is the one who was singing?" Megabyzus asked. The soldiers nodded, uneasily. "Kill her."

The Harrian soldiers froze. It was beyond belief, kill a Priestess of the Great Mother? Was the Persian mad?

"No!" Gabrielle lunged forward, dragging the guards who held her back. It got Megabyzus attention.

"Why not? " He asked, almost amused that a Greek would attempt to lecture him. A Greek, like the worst of their kind, who would not stop talking.

"You want Oromenes alive. Malache's the best chance you've got of bringing the prince around. Malache is Oromenes balance."

The soldiers, listening, cried out. It explained the grief, the madness the Harlot expressed. To be the soul mate of a Priestess was uncanny. One of the guards who had been on the wagon looked at Gabrielle, then at Malache. He addressed Megabyzus. "Lord Satrap. Kill the Harlot, and the boy's spirit will have no reason to return to the flesh."

Megabyzus sneered. Harrian superstition- still. He looked at the soldiers who held a now calm Harlot, red hair strewn with straw, dress covered on the front with the blood of the boy he needed alive, green eyes furious and wise. He saw that they handled her gently, even reverently. There was a level of deference and respect there that he did not instill. A shiver ran down his back. For a moment, he almost believed in the Goddess. He couldn't look at Malache, he found, and his eyes dropped. He couldn't look at the still form of the prince, lying in the cage. He needed a place for his eyes to land, he needed some command back. His gaze fell on the wordy Greek. "What's to keep me from killing you?"

"Nothing." Gabrielle said, then waited a heartbeat, two. "Other than good sense. Malache's not herself at the moment. Grief will do that to you. You need her focused, to bring Oromenes back. I'm the only one who can do that. You can kill me, let madness take Malache, let Oromenes die. And when you get back to Har, you can explain to Xena what happened."

Megabyzus backhanded Gabrielle, knocking her to her knees. "When I return to Har, you will regret every word you spoke. You live until the boy wakes, no longer. I do not fear the Chabouk."

Gabrielle, wiping blood from her lip thought- you should. She could feel the blue eyes burning down from the hills, and almost felt sorry for Megabyzus.

Five more soldiers vanished from the perimeter of the camp during the afternoon, as well as the picket line of horses. Somehow, the line had been cut, and a leopard spooked the horses, scattering them. Gabrielle, leaning back against the bars of the cage heard the sounds of shouting, of men and horses running, smiled. Xena was at work. She glanced at Malache to share the moment. The blue shadows were deep under Malache's eyes, the eyes themselves remote as grave markers. "You should sleep." Gabrielle said, gently.

Malache shook her head. "I feel her leaving." The Harlot had not shifted position, had not loosened her hold on Oromenes' body. She was a woman that needed to fight, needed an enemy, but had only Death, who was loved and feared, not hated.

Chehou ,The Lady of Death, Mistress of the House of Bones and Dust, was Har's sister. She was revered, in her way, and not loathed. Harrians were taught early that love is half of death, one portion dependent on the other for savor. Did not Har share Dummuzi with her sister in the underworld? Did not Dummuzi die every winter, to return in the spring?

Malache's attachment was that of a woman in love, grieved too soon. As a Harlot, she would have understood, but she was far from being a Harlot now. It was the price to be paid for giving away her heart during her term of service. The all encompassing love of the Goddess was not available to her, choked off by the mortal love that ruled her. One might lead to the next, but not now. Not in the face of it's ending, too soon. Har had not equipped her to deal with this.

"Malache. When Xena died, when I took her body back to the Amazons I ran into a friend who told me that when we think of them, the dead can hear our thoughts. Oromenes' spirit isn't in her body now, but I know she can hear you. Tell her what you need to say. Call her back. Xena's out there. She'll get us out, we just have to hang on."

Xena, blue eyes feral in the late afternoon sun, crouched over the terrified Harrian soldier. "I've just cut off the flow of blood to your brain. You can tell me what I want to know, and maybe I'll let you live."

Azarnes crouched next to her, watched with fascination. "A useful trick, Chabouk. Perhaps we could just watch this one die, to see what it's like?"

"Maybe. Depends on what he says." Xena addressed herself to the soldier, who's eyes had started to stand out from his face. "Why hasn't Megabyzus broken camp, with his men disappearing and his horses scattered?"

"The captives cannot be moved." He choked, his neck shaking. "The boy was injured. The healer says he'd die if he is moved."

Xena snarled, an echo of the sound Azarnes made. "What happened to him?" Azarnes demanded, crouching like a ghoul over the soldiers' body.

"He was struck in the back of the head with a mace."

"The others?" Xena asked, still as a rock for the answer.

"They are well."

Xena released the touch, and Azarnes clouted him into unconsciousness. "We have him trapped. He can't move, no matter what we do to him. At least we know that they're all right." Xena said. Azarnes stood, settling his swordbelt over his hips.

"Enough waiting in the hills like jackals. I'm going after Megabyzus."

Xena grabbed his forearm. "Azarnes, wait! I know how you feel."

The old soldier suffered her hand for a moment, before jerking his arm away. "No, Lord Chabouk, you do not. My life ended nineteen years ago, with the death of my wife and sons. I volunteered for the living death of exile, to raise my brother's child. I thought that my portion of pain had been great enough in life, I would not have to risk feeling it again. Oromenes has become my own son. I will not have her taken from me. And if I have to die to prove that I am still a soldier of the Goddess, I will do so gladly." He spoke with passion, for the first time, letting his armor of decades crack. In the end, he was Harrian, tied to life by his love for Oromenes.

"What if I can offer you both Oromenes and Megabyzus on a platter? Look at that camp! It will take them days to round up the horses, if they split their force in half. The morale is low, the men don't know whether to believe their satrap or the prisoners. Didn't we discover that Gabrielle has been telling the guards whom they hold? You know what that must be doing to the loyal Harrians. Megabyzus is gambling that his temporal power is enough to get them to forget the Great Mother. I think it's time we call his bluff."

The camp settled back into quiet after the chaos of the horse stampede. Megabyzus sent out a small party on foot, after the horses. The remaining soldiers grumbled to one another, seeing the unmistakable signs of divine ill favor on Megabyzus' venture. The guards were unable to speak with the prisoners, but the Greek woman's words spread like fire among the camp- the true heir lay dying, at Megabyzus' command. The satrap stayed in his tent, unwilling to see the unraveling of his dream. He saw only the healer, deferring all other decisions to his captain.

The day passed on toward evening, the sun slinking toward the horizon. The valley lay, yellow and gray between hills of charcoal, exposed to the brooding desert sky. A noise swept through the camp, the sound of excitement, of nerves chewed raw, then faced with danger. Gabrielle looked around, craning her neck at the bars of the cage. A single rider was approaching the camp on a pacing horse, with measured indifference. The scouts cried out warnings to one another, then fell silent. The sun stood directly behind the horse, but Gabrielle would have recognized that tall silhouette anywhere. Her heart faltered a beat, the recognition was so strong.

Xena rode casually right into the center of camp, fading sun gilding the sharp angles of her face, eyes like points of steel. The soldiers parted for her, no one remembering to reach for a weapon. Her air of command was palpable, and the soldiers responded to it. Here, at last, was a leader, they thought. To Gabrielle she was magnificent, with the presence of a god, riding out of the sun. I know her better than anyone, and I'm still awed, she thought.

The camp held its breath. Xena rode right up to the wagon and pulled back on the reins. One look at the captives, one moment of burning blue eyes locked with passionate green, a silence like music and thunder. Then the warlord's mask snapped back into place, and she looked straight ahead.

"Tell Megabyzus that I am here." She said, to no one in particular.

The captain ran to Megabyzus tent, throwing open the flap. "Lord Satrap!"

"No, Lord." Stammered the captain.

"Then you desire death?" The Persian howled, his temper worn beyond mending. He rose and drew his sword, intent on slaying this annoyance. The only thing that might have stayed his hand fell from the cowed man's lips.

"The Chabouk is here."

"Xena." He hissed, and went white. What was she doing in Baluchis? Hadn't Bessarius and the unrest with the army been enough to hold her up?- Megabyzus' brain worked frantically, driven past its expected course of events. The flap of his tent flew back and the satrap of Baluchis came out like a whirlwind. He saw his soldiers in a crowd around the captive's wagon and a lone rider, looking taller than the hills on her desert mount. From that unimaginable height steel blue eyes fixed on him.

"Megabyzus. I've come for the captives." The voice was rage sifted through ice.

Though she was a lone woman, weapons undrawn, he quailed. He felt his heart shift in his chest, his future slipping away. I might have been Great King, he thought. There was no time for strategy, only the fear-anger of a lifetime thwarted. "You are in my province now, Xena. Are you a fool to come riding into my camp alone and make demands of me?" For a moment, Megabyzus felt that a show of strength before his men might win them back from this virago, this uncanny woman. He hadn't seen her fight.

"I am not alone. I represent Har and the true heir." Her rich voice increased in volume, so that all the crowd could hear. "Amasis is dead. Oromenes is Great King, Oromenes who Megabyzus struck down and means to murder. Do you stand with the Persian against your Goddess and your Great King?"

Gabrielle, in the moment's decisive pause, called out from the wagon- "For Har! For Oromenes!"

Megabyzus reeled back. "Soldiers of Baluchis to me!"

The camp split like a ripped cloth, soldiers scrambling to stand behind Xena, behind Megabyzus. The foreign born stood with the satrap, the Harrians stood with Xena. The sight of some of his men obeying orders heartened Megabyzus. He waved his sword above his head like a standard. "Slay them!" He called, the words ending in a shriek like a kite's. The fray closed with a roar, men armed with spears, swords, knives, close hand to hand in the center of the camp. Few had been holding bows, and the fighting was abruptly too close to tell friend from foe in the swirling dust. The press was too close for formation, for nicety- it was a bloodbath, a mad tribal skirmish of men held in check too long.

Continued in Part 5.

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