Half A Life
by Maya Tawipart seven
"Never pick a fight with someone bigger than you
That's what I learned when I was at school
And it doesn't really matter how clever you think you are
Those years, they leave all kinds of scars"
-Curve
Three guards patrolled the row of cells in the dungeon. Rather than just lounging around and playing cards, like dungeon guards were supposed to do, they instead took turns walking the length of the hallway at regular intervals while the other two flanked the doorway. Oh, they were probably dozing behind their helmets-- all the strategy in the world couldn't circumvent the inherent laziness of prison guards-- but Autolycus wouldn't want to bet his life on it. And that was exactly what he'd be doing.
He wasn't too worried, though. The enterprising thief's brother of legend had gotten down to the dungeons, and had managed to install a false wall near the far end-- ostensibly for those within trying to get out, but in practice it worked just as well the other way. It would be easy enough to get into the place without coming in contact with the two door guards; it was the lone wanderer that posed the potential threat.
Autolycus scooped up a convenient wooden plank from the corner and hung back in the shadows, hefting his makeshift weapon and holding his breath. He'd only have one chance before his target had the opportunity to call for backup, and then instead of just one huge guy with arms and armor, he'd be dealing with three.
Which he'd admittedly done before, and successfully, but it wasn't something he wanted to make a habit of. Besides, the objective was to not attract attention.
So he waited at the end of the hallway, and when the unlucky guard strolled down the row of cells and back, Autolycus stepped out of the shadows, put a finger to his lips, and then-- when the guard's massive brow started to furrow-- swung as hard as he could for the most exposed, vulnerable part of his victim's anatomy: the neck.
The impact shook him all the way to his toes. The guard didn't fare much better; he sank slowly to his knees, mouth slack in a comical expression of shock. Then his eyes rolled up and, almost in slow motion, he passed out. His helmeted head hit the concrete with a loud thunk, bounced once, and then lay still.
Autolycus let the plank clatter to the floor. "Batter up," he muttered.
"Atticus!" one of the remaining guards called from the doorway. "Everything all right?"
He swore softly. He didn't even know what the fallen guard's voice sounded like. Which made it a little hard to mimic it.
"Atticus," the guard repeated.
"Uh... I'm good!" Autolycus called back, speaking into his hands and hoping he sounded legitimately muffled. Then an idea occured to him, and he added, "Actually, I think one of you better come here and see this."
"What is it?"
"Just some... uh... thing. Uh, I only need one of you," he added hastily, bending down and scooping up the plank again. "Really."
There was a brief discussion, and then one of the guards duly trod back, and was duly dispatched. The third followed, attracted by the noise, and went the way of his wayward colleagues.
Autolycus dropped the plank again, scowling a little. He was spending way too much time bashing guards with sticks. Techniques like that just screamed 'amateur'.
"I think I got a splinter," he complained under his breath, examining his hand and then sucking briefly at the base of his thumb.
He glanced around surreptitiously, then grabbed one of the guards' helmets and settled it on his head. The thing about prisoners, Autolycus had observed, was that they really did have no honor. Once they realized that an intruder wasn't supposed to be there and wasn't about to let them out, they tended to grow cranky and call for the guards. Autolycus didn't plan on leaving with any extraneous companions that night. He wasn't conducting the Underground Chariot Path.
As it turned out, he didn't need to worry. Most of the prisoners weren't in any shape to notice him; the ones that did seemed far beyond caring. Autolycus felt his stomach lurch at the sight. Xena the Conqueror certainly wasn't squeamish about torture. He imagined the same thing happening to Tiro, or to, gods forbid
(Iolaus)
himself, and he had to swallow hard to keep his fancy room-service dinner from forcing its way back up.
Focus, he told himself. Forget all this. Focus on the endpoint-- you and Tiro and Iolaus, all safe and making your collective way the Hades out of here.
Thus resolved, he forced himself to peer into every cell, to see whether or not the occupation was one gaunt, irritable, aged high priest of Hermes. When he finally found Tiro, in the cell directly across from the stairs, he felt his stomach start to turn itself inside out.
He clapped a hand to his mouth and looked away, breathing through his nose, trying to regain his composure. Eventually he took his hand away and exhaled shakily, then turned back to the man he had, possibly, begun to think of as a friend.
"Well. That looks unpleasant," he said finally, because he felt like he should be saying something, but the instant the words were out he winced at the sound of them. Dropping his casual air, he murmured, "Gods. Tiro. Just hold on."
As he fumbled for his lockpicks and fiddled with the lock, he said in a low voice, "Come on, we'll get you out of there and get you fixed up. Ags's been throwing hissy fits for the past three days, wanting to come along-- I wouldn't let her, you'll be glad to know. Hey, she said you gave her your blessing, that's great-- I knew you'd come around...."
He continued to talk softly as he worked, inconsequential things, painfully aware of how lame his words sounded but suspecting that the old man was beyond caring. It probably helped just to hear a familiar voice, and Autolycus couldn't imagine that it mattered what he actually said. He was no Sophocles, for Zeus's sake.
The lock finally popped open in his hand, and some small, detached part of his mind chastised him for taking so long on such a simple job. The rest of him was still too shaken by the state Tiro was in to care.
"Okay, we're outta here," he muttered, swinging the door open and edging into the cell. He stooped and gathered the priest's barely conscious body into his arms. Tiro was surprisingly heavy, and Autolycus was strangely reassured by this until the phrase "dead weight" flashed into his mind, and then he was just as anxious as before. "Let's hope Blondie can keep that distraction going long enough. What am I saying, the guy is a walking distraction. He sure distracts me, let me tell you. Look, just hang on a little bit more, if-- ah-- if you don't mind--"
Autolycus had just reached the bottom of the staircase when Tiro jerked suddenly in his arms, then fell limp once more. Something warm started to flow down the front of his tunic.
Time seemed to slow at that point. He didn't want to look down at the body in his arms, and he didn't want to look up to see what might be waiting for him, so he just stared at the steps in front of him while his mind struggled to assimilate what had happened and at the same time to prepare him for what he might see.
It felt like an hour. It was less than two seconds before Autolycus forced himself to look down.
What he saw made his knees go weak.
Tiro was still lying like a broken, bloody rag doll in his arms; that much hadn't changed. What was new was the shaft of the crossbow bolt protruding from exactly where the priest's heart would be. Presumably, Autolycus thought, that bolt comes to a point, somewhere in that heart, and oh look, that must be him bleeding to death....
Then the reality of the situation sunk in, and he gave an involuntary yelp and dropped the body of the already-dead priest. Tiro's corpse bounced once, then lay still.
Oddly enough, his first thought wasn't that Hermes was going to kill him for letting the god's most devoted priest get killed, but rather that he had just lost someone who, he realized with mingled bemusement and disgust, he had actually started to care about. Well, maybe care about. Maybe consider a-- no, not a father, he really didn't know the man all that well....
Agamede was going to be so disappointed....
Only then did Autolycus look up.
The stairs were blocked by a phalanx of bodies, men and women both, all armed. The one who had shot the arrow was a female, slender and blond, with tight features and cool blue eyes. As he stared, she reloaded her crossbow and took aim again, directly at his own chest.
Next to her, in front of everyone else, stood Xena the Conqueror.
She stood above him with her head held high and her legs planted apart, decked out in a leather fighting dress and armor that was significantly more revealing than her pseudo-Chinese imperial robes. Her long dark hair was loose and streaming over her shoulders. Those intense blue eyes bored into his.
Autolycus couldn't help himself; the attraction was magnetic, and his body responded accordingly. A moment later he realized what she was, and the sick feeling returned. But he couldn't break her hypnotic, penetrating gaze.
Xena smiled.
"Now isn't that a pity," she said. "I would have expected better from the King of Thieves."
Autolycus's mind was reeling. She'd just murdered someone in his arms, and now she wanted to trade some witty repartee?
"You haven't caught me yet," he managed to say, aware of how ridiculous he sounded but unable to think of anything better.
Slowly Xena began to descend the stairs.
He swallowed and stepped back. "Torturing an old man, eh? I'm disappointed, Xena, really. I would've thought you had more style than that."
"The King of Thieves, a hero?" she countered. "Now something about that just doesn't fit." She smiled. "Call me crazy."
"Gladly," Autolycus muttered. His eyes darted down the rows of cells to where the secret entrance would be. If he could just get away, get through that door--
And what? Be back on the stairs where the army was currently setting up camp?
No, he thought, no, there's another way out, isn't there? The passage leads to the stairs, but there was another branch, wasn't there? I could've sworn--
Xena's smile didn't alter. "Glaphyra," she said.
Autolycus spun around, poised to flee.
The blond woman, Glaphyra, let another bolt fly. It slammed into Autolycus' right thigh, just below his hip, and he crumpled to the floor, gasping in pain.
He blinked through the haze of red and watched helplessly as the Conqueror sauntered down the rest of the steps towards him. He tried to scramble away. A heavy boot came down hard on his hand, quelling that idea.
Autolycus stared up at her, dazed. Pain and blood loss clouded and confused his mind, and for a moment the Conqueror, with her dark hair and granite face, looked like one of the serene goddesses of the East. But there was a strange light in those frozen eyes that was more suited to Kali-- hunger and lust and barely controlled rage, and just the barest hint of madness.
She leaned over him, her hair falling down, over her shoulders. Long enough to reach past her waist, it now brushed over Autolycus's face and chest, surrounding him in a cage of black silk that smelled of dark fruits and exotic spices, blood and sweat.
"I suppose we could have fought," she murmured, her lips brushing his ear. "I had a nice go of it with your friend upstairs. But somehow I sense you wouldn't be much of a challenge."
Iolaus, he thought, a sharp, bitter stab of fear hitting him right in the throat. No, please, not that....
Oh, you've got it bad.
Xena moved fast, unexpected, like a rattlesnake striking, and the last thing he remembered was the two fingers aimed for his throat. Then the world went black.
Agamede buried her face in the pillow and ran down her list of wishes, so that if a genie happened to materialize in the middle of the room, she'd be ready. She wished her father was there. She wished that Sileia was there. She wished, rather grudgingly, that Autolycus and his short friend were... not there, but not in the castle, either. Safe, she decided, would do for them. In fact-- She scrapped her mental list and started over. She wished that she and Sileia were getting married, right that second, and that her father and Autolycus and... the other guy... were in the audience. And Sileia's family, if they were coming. And Sileia's Amazon friends. And....
And she really wished her father's taste in pillows didn't run to the two-flat-sheets-glued-together sort.
She sat up, frustrated, and hurled the offending pillow across the room. It was no use. She was wide awake.
Agamede jumped out of bed, tugging her red shift down over her hips, and began to pace. No way she'd get back to sleep before Autolycus and-- Iolaus, that was it-- got back. No way.
A sound from outside made her freeze.
Agamede bent over slowly and grabbed her shirt from the floor, never taking her eyes off the door. She fumbled for the knife she kept tucked in the inside pocket, then straightened, pressed her back up against the wall beside the door, and held her breath, waiting.
A soft, female voice from the other side of the door said, "'Mede?"
Agamede didn't even stop to think. She dropped the knife, shoved the key into the lock, twisted it ineffectually for a few precious seconds, and then finally snapped it back and flung the door open.
Sileia stood in the hallway, looking exactly the same as the day they'd parted ways-- her long dark hair falling past her shoulders, with a few stray braids framing her face, her exotic gray eyes and her solemn, full-lipped mouth. She wore a dark blue cotton tunic and a faded blue and green skirt, and she had tattoos up and down her arms and various holes pierced in her ears, like a goddess.
She was the most beautiful thing Agamede had ever seen.
"Leia," the priest's daughter breathed, and then she threw herself forward, laughing and crying and shaking all at the same time.
Sileia barely managed to catch her. She staggered back under the weight, looking bewildered for a moment; then Agamede's lips found hers, and she closed her eyes, and for a short time everything was right with the world.
Reluctantly Agamede broke the kiss. She leaned back and studied her fiancee's half-shadowed face. "You would not believe," she murmured, "how glad I am to see you."
Sileia licked her lips. "I certainly appreciate the welcome, but is something wrong?"
Agamede sighed, looking down at her bare feet. "Well. You could say that."
"Is Tiro here? I expected to see him out front, waiting to beat me off with a broom."
"Well... well, actually," Agamede began haltingly, "he... he gave us his blessing."
Sileia's arched eyebrows shot up. "Really? That's great. So what's the matter?"
She sighed again, suddenly uncomfortable. Her fingers found where Sileia's hands were resting on her hips and settled over them, squeezing. Somehow the action comforted her.
"You didn't happen to pass anyone on the road, did you?" she asked. "'Cause I thought-- for a minute, I thought my wishes were actually coming true."
"No," Sileia said. "Just me." She turned her hands so that she was clasping Agamede's in a warm, reassuring grip. She didn't ask again, but the question was in her eyes.
"Look," Agamede said, "I know you don't particularly like the whole stealing aspect of the family business...." She trailed off, uncertain.
"I don't like the idea of stealing for fun, no," Sileia said. "If it's to survive, and there's no other way, then that's different."
"Like hunting." Agamede gave a faint half-smile. "Come on," she said, "let's go sit down. It's kind of a long story."
She backed into the bedroom and Sileia followed, still holding tightly to her hands. They sat down on the bed, and then Agamede tucked her feet up under her, leaned her head against her fiancee's shoulder, and closed her eyes. Suddenly, with Sileia there, things didn't seem quite so hopeless anymore.
Not opening her eyes, Agamede began, "See, there are these two guys my dad knows...."
There were probably worse ways to wake up. But waking up with a throbbing headache, to two armed guards holding his arms in vise grips and dragging him backwards on his ass, was right up there on Iolaus's list of Top Ten Ways Not to Spend the Weekend.
He opened his eyes cautiously, not wanting to alert anyone to his newly conscious state. As it turned out, it didn't matter. No one was paying him the slightest bit of attention.
"Corinth."
"Corinth, of course. You know, when you think about it, that was a fairly small battle compared to the ones that came later, but it was the single greatest one of her pre-Conqueror career. Xena's army completely devastated them."
Great, Iolaus thought, I've landed in the middle of the Conqueror Fan Club.
"One of my personal favorites, now," the second voice continued, "that was Cynoscephalae. I was there, you know. My first battle as a soldier in her army, and that was really something."
"Don't you come from Cynoscephalae, though? Didn't your mother live around there?"
"And what use do I have for a mother? People are people, a village is a village, and one great patch of land is the same as any other. And that day we added thousands of leagues to Xena's empire."
"Okay, but what if it was your father instead of your mother?"
"My father died when I was eight."
"That's beside the point."
"I don't see how."
Neither did Iolaus, but then that might have had a lot to do with having received various blows to the head. He wished they'd quit dragging him by the arms. His shoulders felt like they were popping out of their sockets.
He wished they'd shut up about their Insights on the Modern Greek Soldier's Psyche already.
"I'll tell you what, though," the second soldier continued, "you'd certainly do it."
"What, kill your mother? I don't even know her. And anyway, she's already dead."
"No, dimwit, kill your mother."
"Yeah, right."
"You know I'm right. Face it, Palaemon, you'd cut your dick off if the legendary Xena asked you to. And you might as well have, anyway. When's the last time you got any, or are you still pining after the Warrior Princess?"
"Fuck you, Darnelle, you don't even know. So I just--"
"Dream about her every night?"
"--admire her, so what?"
"So I'll tell you what. No woman is worth that kind of pain and sacrifice, not even one like Xena."
"Well, it's nice she has such a loyal army. Too bad she doesn't know."
"Listen, buddy, Xena knows me. She likes me. You may be just another army recruit, but she trained me personally. Me and her, we go way back."
"Oh yeah? Willing to stake your life on it, are you?"
Iolaus could practically hear the soldier's grin. "Well, she hadn't killed me yet."
He reviewed the conversation, in case he'd learned anything he could turn to his advantage. Well, Palaemon had a crush on Xena, and Darnelle didn't like his mother, and....
Fuck strategy. It was time to fight.
He quickly catalogued his functional body parts. His right hand was completely out of commission; the pain had subsided to a dull ache,but any more pressure on that break and he'd probably just faint on the spot. He could get in some elbow shots, though. His left arm was probably going to need stitches, but at least he could hit someone with it without passing out, and that was what counted at the moment.
Odds of survival if I attack now, he thought, not good. Odds if I let them take me wherever we're headed, pretty much none.
It wasn't a hard decision to make.
"Don't pout," Darnelle was saying, presumably to a sulking Palaemon, since Iolaus certainly wasn't pouting, and anyway they still weren't paying any attention to him. "You're the one who keeps asking these stupid questions."
"So maybe I'm just trying to figure you out."
"There's nothing to figure, pal." It took Iolaus a moment to realize that it wasn't actually meant to be a nickname, it had just come out that way. "I'm a man-- just like you, unless you're holding out. What you see is what you get."
Iolaus waited a few more moments, until they were caught up in another conversation; the subject turned to upcoming chariot races, or something of the sort. Then, when they were distracted, he tensed his muscles, kicked his legs up high over his head and, supported solely by the soldiers' grips on his arms, smashed his boots into what he hoped were the backs of his two escorts' heads.
It wasn't a move he'd done more than once or twice, as the situation warranted, and as he did so now he remembered why. Every last muscle in his arms rebelled, and the cut-- slice, really-- down his left arm screamed in protest. As he flexed his wrists, the broken bones in his right arm brushed against each other, and the resulting wave of pain threatened to knock him out once more.
It did, however, have the desired effect. The soldiers stumbled forward, losing their balance and dropping their grips on his arms-- and Iolaus dropped like a stone, landing heavily on his shoulders and the back of his head.
Well, it had some desired effects, anyway.
Iolaus laid on his back on the floor for a second or two, dazed. Then he jumped up, a little unsteadily, and shook his head to clear it.
In front of him, Palaemon and Darnelle were climbing to their feet, weapons drawn, looking murderous. The younger one-- Palaemon, he guessed-- was the guy with the scar, the one who'd winked at him earlier. Iolaus grinned, perversely glad of the fact.
"Not bad," said the older one, Darnelle. "That was a nice move. But now you have to get past two of us, both armed. Think you can?"
"I think I'll give it a shot," Iolaus said.
"Good. That's great. Good for you." Darnelle stepped back, twirling his sword. "Remember, you asked for it."
Palaemon smirked, giving his own sword a quick spin. "Come and get it."
Going into the fight, Iolaus had one real objective-- to disarm his opponents. Of course, ultimately he wanted to get out of the castle with his heart still beating, but in his line of work, he'd learned to focus on short term goals.
They didn't wait for him to attack, instead circling around to either side of him and starting to slice. Caught off guard, Iolaus barely managed to duck in time; the two swords clanged together, and he rolled away. He jumped up and grabbed a long-handled torch from its mount on the wall, pivoting quickly and spinning it like a staff. His own sword was long gone, probably still lying in the hallway somewhere.
Thus armed, he did his best to block the blows, meanwhile studying his opponents' fighting styles. Palaemon fought fast, furious, and skilled; even so, he was a little too sure of himself, and just shy of experienced enough to back up that confidence. It was all too apparent that Darnelle was carrying most of the weight.
Darnelle, for that matter, was a more formidable opponent-- quick and experienced, with an uncanny ability to predict and block Iolaus's moves. But he was a flashy fighter, overly showy, like he was used to fighting for an audience, and that consciousness could be a vulnerability as well.
Of course, none of that was any use with one broken wrist, one cut-open arm, and nothing more than a stick to defend himself with. Iolaus held his own for as long as he could, but it wasn't long before the combined assault drove him backwards, until he found himself pressed up against a wall.
Or, more specifically, against a window grate.
Iolaus leaned his head back against the metal grating and stared at Palaemon and Darnelle, wide-eyed. His apprehension wasn't entirely feigned; if he couldn't pull off his plan, if they caught on too soon, if he'd misjudged... well, then he'd be dead and such problems be rather moot.
"Not bad," Darnelle said. He barely sounded winded. "Not bad at all. A pretty good show, all things considered."
Iolaus's left hand snaked behind his back, removing a thin strip of metal from the waistband of his breeches and feeling for the lock on the window grate.
"Unfortunately," Palaemon said, "we seem to have the upper hand here. Against all apparent odds."
He found the small hole and slipped the pick in, wiggling it slightly, focusing all his concentration on the cool, slick, jagged guts of the lock.
"So, seeing as how you've got about five seconds to live," Darnelle said, rather nastily, "are there any words you'd care to pass on to future generations?"
Click.
Iolaus smiled. Grinned, really. He tensed, feeling the sudden burst of adrenaline coursing through his body.
"Sure," he said. "How 'bout, 'Bye'?"
Then, before either of them could react, he shoved the window grate open and launched himself backwards into the open air, bringing his knees up as he started to fall.
It was definitely a long shot. But the tree line visible through the window was higher than it had when he'd been fighting Xena, and that had been on the fourth floor. That could, conceivably, mean taller trees. Or it could mean that he was closer to the ground and therefore much more likely to survive a fall from this height.
Either way, it was better than the alternative.
And Iolaus had to find Autolycus. Assuming he was still alive to be found.
Prologue | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Epilogue Email: mayatawi@populli.net