Prophecy of Darkness

by Stella Howard

  He bent over and rushed her again, bellowing, head down. Too fast—he would be on her in a second—

  Xena leapt forward, knees up, her high, trilling cry echoing through the street. As Barus passed under her, she somersaulted across his back and turned, landing behind him. Her leg shot out, foot arched back, and struck behind his knee, hard.

  Barus stumbled and fell, landing on the dusty ground with a strangled cry. He jumped to his feet, his lower lip bloody now from the impact. He wiped at it with the back of one meaty hand, then spit—a tooth spattered to the dirt. He grinned at Xena, a sick smile of blood lust, and then ran at her again.

  Enough of this, thought Xena, waiting until he was right in front of her before she moved. Just a small step to the left. He was too intent on his run to see her stick out her foot.

  He tripped and fell, this time harder than before. He was slower getting to his feet now, and Xena could see that he wouldn’t last much longer. He relied too much on his strength, his pure power, and she was outmaneuvering him easily.

  She could hear the surprised cries of the townsfolk as Barus circled her again, his steps faltering and unsure now. Obviously they had expected him to beat her. She smiled a little to herself, wondering if they would apologize for their hostility before seeing the three of them out of town . . .

  Barus had lost his grin, but not his anger. He spit again, the foamy substance bright red. Keeping his eyes on Xena, he looked for an opening.

  “You can’t win,” she said gently. “There’s no shame in it—just stop; you can stop this. We’ll leave, and you can—”

  He roared and hurled himself toward her, his fists raised—

  —as Xena jumped and spun, a flying kick aimed at his head. Barus ran right into it, the heel of her foot catching the top of his skull with incredible force.

  He stopped short, opened his mouth as if to speak—and his eyes rolled back, showing white. He dropped like a sack of manure, his unconscious form hitting the ground in a cloud of dust.

  “Barus!” Tura broke away from the crowd and ran forward, to kneel beside her fallen husband. “You killed him!”

  Xena looked at her calmly. “He’s not dead, although when he wakes up, he might wish he was. The punishment is over.”

  She turned to Saji, who looked as if he’d just swallowed a live fish—his face was red and sweaty, his eyes bulging. He started to speak, but all that came out was a strangled gah sound. The townspeople stood silently, apparently not knowing what to do. Gabrielle grinned at Xena from where she still stood with Alesandra, the child watching Xena with an expression of amazement.

  “Saji, we will leave now, as spoken by Barus. He said that if I survived, we could go.”

  He didn’t say anything, and she decided to take his silence as agreement. She turned toward Argo, glad that no one had died, no real harm had been done except for a broken tooth and a sore head—

  Behind her, Saji broke the stillness with a scream of rage.

  “Kill them! Get the witch, the women, grab them and kill them! Ling will not be appeased until they are dead!”

  Xena was running before he’d finished, running for Gabrielle and Alesandra, but they were already being pulled away from one another by the shouting crowd. The men and women of Osetus were grabbing for sticks and stones, ready to do Saji’s bidding.

  With a raging scream of her own, Xena leapt unarmed into the crazed mob.

  Chapter 11

  Gabrielle struggled against the powerful arms that held her, then bit down on a hand that brushed across her face. A man shouted, and she was released. Xena’s weapons had fallen to the ground, but there were too many people, too many legs and feet kicking up the dust—

  —and then Xena was there, spinning and jumping, dropping the villagers one at a time. A woman holding a big stick was disarmed by a well-placed slap; the man who had grabbed Alesandra was felled by a blow to the knee.

  “Gabrielle! Help Alesandra!”

  Gabrielle ran to the scared child, lashing out at a snarling young farmer who tried to stop her. It was a lucky punch, hitting him hard on the chin; he stumbled back, and Gabrielle grabbed Alesandra and pulled her away from the crowd.

  Argo pranced anxiously in the midst of the shouting townsfolk, and Xena trilled again, a high call that would tell the horse to hold still. Argo obeyed instantly.

  There were still fifteen or twenty of them standing, many carrying makeshift weapons—sticks, rocks, the handles of hoes and other farming tools. One elderly man held a wicked-looking scythe, the curving blade flashing maliciously in the late sun.

  Xena leapt into the air, slapping her hands down across Argo’s back, vaulting up and over him. She kept her legs splayed, striking two of the villagers in the chest, one with each foot. Ribs snapped. They fell, and stayed down. She landed, spun—

  —and saw that four of the armed townspeople were headed to where Gabrielle and Alesandra stood, a hundred paces away. She only had a few seconds before they reached them.

  Xena caught a glimpse of her chakra, the metal glinting against the dust by her feet. In one swift movement, she caught the shining hoop up and launched it, the kick sending it high into the air.

  The man with the scythe rushed forward at the same moment, and Xena ducked the blade, turning and driving her elbow into his stomach. The man let out an oof as the wind was knocked out of him and he dropped the weapon—

  —as Xena caught the chakra, the metal landing easily in her hand. She vaulted back over Argo, this time landing squarely in the saddle. With the slightest of pressure from her boots, the horse lunged forward, headed for where Gabrielle was, the young woman sheltering Alesandra with her body. The armed foursome were raising their weapons to strike.

  Xena trilled out again, used her trained instincts to mark the villagers in a split second—and the chakra flew, glittering, to knock four weapons out of four hands, bouncing between them almost faster than the eye could see. The attackers yelped and backed away in confusion; Gabrielle snatched up one of the fallen clubs, readying herself in case more came.

  Xena deftly spun Argo around to face the mob—and saw that it wasn’t much of a mob anymore. Those who hadn’t been knocked down or injured didn’t seem to know what to do now, confronted with an opponent they couldn’t stop, let alone understand. Many had dropped their weapons; others were crouching down near their fallen neighbors, their expressions openly confused. A few had gathered around Saji, perhaps looking for direction.

  Xena got down off of Argo, watching the villagers warily. Gabrielle and Alesandra joined her, Gabrielle handing her the chakra before silently taking the horse’s reins.

  Xena walked slowly toward the leader of Osetus, noting that none of the townspeople had been seriously injured, or at least not as far as she could tell; they had gotten off easy. She was no longer the cruel and careless woman who would have laughed to see them in pain; she had chosen a higher path—a way that didn’t call for the murder of innocents, a way that seemed to contrast sharply with their own.

  Xena met Saji’s angry gaze full on. “Is this what your god demands?” she asked softly, then raised her voice so that the rest could hear: “Do you worship a god that would demand the life of a child?”

  She looked around at the villagers and found that none would meet her gaze. Except for Saji, whom she faced again.

  “We— The God Ling denies prophecy,” he stammered, his eyes less angry and more uncertain. “He is the Creator of all, and will not stand for . . . He won’t stand for . . .”

  Saji trailed off, looking around at his people, his children. They watched and waited.

  Xena arched her brow. “Ling created everything? He is the maker of all?”

  Saji nodded, his face seeming older than it had before, more haggard.

  She turned and addressed all of them, her deep voice carrying easily across the crowd. “W
hy would Ling create a child who is evil? Alesandra did not choose her vision; does that mean that Ling did not create her?”

  She looked at Saji. “Or does it mean that perhaps it was Ling who gave her the gift of sight in the first place? That it is her natural self, to foresee?”

  Saji didn’t answer, but Xena could see in his eyes that she had made a point, however small. He wasn’t stupid or crazy, she could see that—simply ignorant, so certain in his religious zeal that he hadn’t questioned anything for a long, long time.

  “Barus and Tura are going to have a son,” continued Xena. “A son with his father’s eyes. You should rejoice for them, rejoice in this blessing from your god. That Alesandra saw this thing—perhaps you should think about how she knew at all; if your god is the Creator, perhaps she heard it from Him.”

  Saji still made no reply, and Xena could see that he wasn’t going to change his ways overnight, or the ways of his people. But she could also see the thoughtful way with which he looked over at Alesandra, that question still in his eyes. Not a lot, but it was something.

  Xena turned to Gabrielle and Alesandra. “Let’s go,” she said, and when she lifted Alesandra onto Argo’s back, none of the townsfolk moved to stop her. She scooped up her sword, sheathing it quickly, and then led the horse past the staring villagers.

  As they passed Barus, who was sitting up groggily with Tura’s help, she saw the woman place a hand across her lower belly and smile hesitantly at her husband.

  Xena imagined that once the young woman had held her healthy infant boy, she might not be so quick to judge in the years to come.

  Within minutes, they were back in the woods, the package of dried goods tied securely to Argo’s saddle, the town of Osetus behind them as the sun began its slow descent into the western sky.

  Gabrielle let out a pent-up breath. “I never thought I’d be so glad to leave a place! Those people were nuts!”

  Xena shrugged, still walking alongside Gabrielle. “Not nuts. Faithful to the point of blindness—they believe what they believe because they believe it, no questions.” She smiled a little, thinking of the look she’d seen in Saji’s eyes.

  “But people can change,” she added, softly, almost to herself.

  Alesandra was upset, her face a picture of misery. From her seat on Argo, she stared sadly at the ground, holding back tears. “I’m sorry, Xena, Gabrielle. If it hadn’t been for what I did—”

  “—they might never have learned to see,” finished Xena. “It’s all right. I have a feeling that the people of Osetus might be changing their tune before long.”

  She smiled up at a surprised Alesandra. “You may have just altered an entire religion. Because of what you did, those people are going to be forced to reevaluate the way that they think. And maybe the next prophet who wanders through will be welcomed instead of shunned.”

  Alesandra’s eyes shone brightly. “Really?”

  “Really.” Xena grinned at Gabrielle. “Although I think maybe we’ll go around Osetus on the way back, hmm? Give them some time to work out the details?”

  Gabrielle nodded wholeheartedly, shuddering at the thought of revisiting the town. They walked along silently for a few minutes, each lost in her own thoughts, then turned a corner on the wooded path. The moon came into view, already up, still barely visible in the early evening light.

  “Almost half-full,” said Gabrielle, trying to make conversation. “You know, the Goddess Aphrodite once said . . .”

  Gabrielle trailed off when she saw the look on Alesandra’s face. The girl had fixed her gaze on the ghostly moon, and her skin had gone milk-white.

  “Alesandra?” Xena pulled on Argo’s reins, bringing him to a stop. “What is it?”

  Alesandra spoke softly, but her voice had the same tone as before, when she had seen the future child of Tura and Barus. “How soon?” she whispered, her voice both young and old at once. “How soon before Avernus?”

  Xena realized that Alesandra was “seeing,” and she answered quickly, her tone gentle. “Perhaps two weeks.”

  “Then we must hurry,” said the child, not blinking, staring at the half-moon, entranced. “When She is full, he will act. When She is full, our time is done, the Words spoken. He does not see, will not heed his father’s words, he will undo the Beast—”

  Alesandra faltered, then shook herself suddenly, looking to Xena, just a child once more. It was as if she had lost the train of the vision, slipping back into herself. Her eyes were wide and frightened by whatever she had seen.

  “The moon! When it’s full, whatever he’s going to do, that’s when he’ll do it!”

  Xena frowned. “You said that he would undo the beast, Alesandra—who will? Did you see him? Was the beast Cerebrus?”

  Alesandra, tired from the full day of ups and downs and tired of being visited by prophecy, suddenly burst into tears.

  “I don’t know! All I know is that we have to get there before the moon is full or it’s going to happen!”

  Gabrielle rushed to comfort the girl, calming her with soothing words as Xena gazed up at the moon. Two weeks before it rose full and round, and it would take them that long to get to Avernus—not counting the time it would take even to find this man. And he might not want to be found . . .

  Xena sighed, wishing that someone else had been named in this prophecy of doom. Two weeks?

  It was going to be close.

  Chapter 12

  The night of the full moon was only a week away, and Telius could hardly wait. The candles were already in place, the proper words memorized, and if there had been a spell that would make time speed up, Telius would have jumped at the chance—unfortunately, there was no such ritual. Or at least none that he knew of.

  Telius had sent Dunn into town for supplies—not that they needed any, but Katil, the nearest town to Avernus, was easily a week away. Telius didn’t want the spell to be interrupted, even by chance, so he’d told Dunn that he was in desperate need of ink, that his supply had run short. By the time Dunn got back, the rite would be a week past and the world would be at peace . . .

  He felt a little guilty about lying to Dunn, who had always been a faithful servant and seemed like a nice enough man—but if the spell didn’t work, Telius didn’t want anyone to know of his failure.

  “It will work,” he whispered, then looked up at his father’s image. “I know it, I can feel it!”

  He was standing in the entryway to the castle, having just returned from another solitary picnic outside. The portrait of Martus Bain seemed to look down approvingly from its place in the main hall, his father blessing him with his kind demeanor, his dark eyes smiling at Telius.

  Telius sat down wearily on the stone floor, still gazing up at the image of his father. He hadn’t slept well the night before, only a few hours; as the fateful day drew closer, he found it harder and harder to relax. It was calm and peaceful here, the entry stones warm from the afternoon sun shining in. His belly was full from the sandwiches he’d had for lunch.

  If only pictures could talk, he thought sleepily, then I could tell him all about it; and he would laugh and talk with me, the way we used to . . .

  He closed his eyes, just a quick rest, and he could hear the crows outside, their harsh cries seeming far away.

  “Telius,” said his father. “My son.”

  Telius looked up and around, his eyes wide. Could it be— “Father?”

  There was no one in the hall, no one who could have spoken. Telius turned his head, and a flicker of movement caught his eye, from the wall above him. The portrait of his father! It was alive! He watched, amazed, as the still picture of Martus Bain become fluid, a moving, talking man inside the great wooden frame.

  “Yes, it’s me,” said his father, and smiled down gently at him. He had been young when the portrait was painted, not much older than Telius was now, and it was strange to see th
is vital, dark-haired man speak in his father’s voice.

  “Am I dreaming?” Telius asked.

  “Yes. But you must listen, and remember. You are a fine young man, my son, and I know that what you mean to do is for the good of all—but wait for the girl. Wait for all of them, and the girl will explain. The warrior is coming to help.”

  What? Telius peered closer at the image of his father, frowning. “I-I don’t understand, Father! What are you talking about?”

  Martus Bain smiled. “I love you, my son. Remember . . .”

  “Father? Wait, don’t go—” Telius reached upward as the image slowly lost dimension, fading back into paint on canvas, a portrait.

  He opened his eyes again, suddenly awake—truly awake. He got to his feet, then stepped up to the painting, touching the dried pigments with a shaking hand. It had been a dream, all a dream . . . but it had seemed so real!

  Telius shook his head, taking a step back from the portrait. Wait for a girl? The warrior will help? It didn’t make any sense!

  He peered closely at the picture. “Father?”

  No answer.

  Telius smiled nervously at himself, thinking of his earlier wish and feeling a bit foolish. Paintings did talk, perhaps, but only in dreams . . .

  He had overworked himself, that was all, and he hadn’t slept enough in the past weeks. And he had dozed in front of his father’s portrait, and dreamed that it spoke a bunch of dream-words, the strange and often absurd conversations that sleep always seemed to bring. Wait for a girl and a warrior! Nonsense, really—but no surprise, considering how tired he’d been lately.

  Already, the dream seemed hazy around the edges, the clearness of it becoming clouded by his rational mind—except for the part when his father had told him to remember how much he loved him. That he would keep, because he knew it to be true—and although he knew it was just a dream, it had been good to hear those words again.