Disclaimer: You know how it
goes…Xena and Gab and anyone else you recognise aren’t mine, they belong to
those lucky, lucky ever-so-nice-I’m-sure people at Renaissance. The corrupted
Sucker song comes from the musical Barnum.
There is some violence in this
but it’s nothing serious. There is no intentional subtext – although I’ve
thrown in a half nekkid Amazon for good measure.
I suppose this is set somewhere
in the second season
Please feed the bard. All tasty
tidbits can be sent here. Nothing
indigestible, please, unless it’s wrapped in nut bread.
To Guard the Bard
By Karen Dunn
I am in pain.
From the throbbing in my head to the ache in my ribs all the way down
to the incomprehensible agony of the little toe I stubbed jumping out of that last tree, I
am not a happy warrior.
And when I get her alone, I am going to kill Gabrielle.
It all started in a village.
This is not uncommon. Most of these misadventures start in perfectly
normal, peasant-ridden villages in the middle of nowhere. If it weren’t for the fact
that, without my weekly mug of port, I would revert to Warlord type quicker than blinking,
we wouldn’t go within a mile of the places.
So there we are, walking towards the tavern with Gabrielle trying her
hardest to look old enough to drink, when I hear a shout of: “Princess!”
followed by running footsteps.
I set my expression to aloof and slightly impatient and turn with a
casual grace to raise an eyebrow at whomever it was who called me.
I planned on taking them down a peg or two for the over-familiar use
of the word ‘Princess’ but secretly I am pleased.
Usually all I get is “Hey, Xena” on a good day or “Oy,
scum sucking murderer, have you got a minute?” on a not so good day.
On a bad day we tend to avoid other people all together. There are
only so many arrows I can catch in one go.
Anyway, the woman running towards us is showing slightly more skin
than is strictly necessary, even in these enlightened times, and I realise she is an
Amazon.
She ignores me completely and throws herself to the ground at
Gabrielle’s feet, supplicating herself to the bard who is grinning a little too much
for my liking.
“Princess,” she says and I try not to sulk, “You are
needed at the village.”
Gabrielle helps the panting woman to her feet, “Why?” she
asks, “What’s wrong?”
The Amazon tries to catch her breath, “The Queen is working on a
treaty with our neighbours”, she says, “and it’s not going too well.”
“How can I help?”
The Amazon looks at her feet, “Well some one mentioned that you
can talk the hind legs off a centaur and the Queen thought that was quite apt for the
situation. So I’ve been sent to fetch you.”
I cough into my hand to hide a grin as Gabrielle tries to work out
whether or not she’s just been insulted.
“Well” she says, “If it’s really important then
I’ll have to go.” She regards the sweating, half naked Amazon, “Why
don’t you rest up here for the day and follow me when your pulse rate returns to
normal?”
The Amazon nods, “Thank you, Princess” and staggers off
towards the tavern to collapse face down in a mug of ale.
Gabrielle watches her go before turning to me and saying, “Well,
cheerio then, Xena. I’ll meet you back here in a few days.”
And she strolls off down the street as calm as you please.
I start to wave fondly before good sense hammers at the door and I
tear off after her, stopping her in her tracks. “What do you think you’re
doing?” I ask.
She gives me a look, “I’m going to help Melosa with that
treaty” she says in a placating tone.
“Well, could you wait a minute” I say, “I have to
fetch Argo from the stables.”
She gives me another look, “They asked for me.” she says,
“They didn’t ask for you. They didn’t say ‘Save us, Xena, we need your
help, and feel free to bring the sidekick if you have to’. They didn’t say
‘This is a task only the Warrior Princess can handle’. No. They asked for me and
I’m going – alone!”
I take a deep breath. She’s been like this for moons now. Just
because she got made into an Amazon Princess and was given one questionable staff lesson
by a teacher with less co-ordination than she has, she thinks she can take on the known
world.
“Gabrielle” I say in that tone that makes bandits call for
their mummies, “Let’s be sensible here.”
As usual it has absolutely no affect on the bard, “Xena,”
she says, “I am being sensible. It’s only half a day’s walk along quiet
roads and half of those will be inside Amazon territory. It’s the perfect opportunity
for me test the skills you’ve taught me without actually being in any danger.”
She smiles at me and we both know she’s won. The centaurs
don’t stand a chance.
“All right, Gabrielle,” I say, “But if you’re not
back here within two days I’m coming to look for you. And if you’ve gotten
yourself killed I will be very annoyed.”
She gives me a hug and then bounces off down the road, swinging her
staff around her head.
I can almost hear the local thugs sharpening their daggers at the
thought of an easy mark.
I wait until she’s out of sight and then I count to one hundred.
And then I count to one hundred again.
Then I follow her.
I’m not afraid of losing track of her. Not in the least.
Gabrielle may be many things - bard, Amazon Princess, widow of a totally hopeless yet
strangely attractive farm boy turned soldier from a village with an unpronounceable name -
but she is down right hopeless at covering her tracks.
Rampaging centaurs would make a better job of being stealthy.
No, she may as well carve: “Gabrielle woz ere” into every
other tree. I’d find her just as easily.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I should
listen to her earlier argument, aren’t you?
“She’s not a child,” you’re thinking, “You
should trust her,” you’re thinking, “You don’t half hit the high notes
when she belts you in the happy sacs with that stick, so what’s the problem,”
you’re thinking.
Believe me, you know nothing.
Gabrielle is a trouble magnet. It’s not her fault and I swear to
all the gods that she’s completely unaware of the fact but if there’s a bandit
looking to mug someone or a thief on the take, you can guarantee that my Gabby is the
first person they’ll come across.
If there’s a warlord on the rampage in need of a hostage or a
king who wants a virginal bride, they’ll cross continents to find her - though the
virginal part is questionable to say the least.
I tell you, moths and flames have nothing on this girl.
And when she’s talked her way out of one mess or bashed her way
out of another, what is the first thing people say?
Not: “Why didn’t you stay with Xena, Gabrielle?”
Not: “You really should stick closer to the warrior, Gabrielle,
it’s a dangerous known world out there.”
Not: “In the name of Zeus, girl, can’t you stay out of
trouble for once?”
Oh no, they will say none of these things.
What they will say is: “Xena, how could you leave her on her
own?”
Or: “And where were you when our Princess was being
battered?”
Or: “I’m going to cut you up with a blunt farming implement
and feed you to the chickens.”
While she gives me the kicked puppy look.
It’s not fair.
I don’t think anyone realises just how tough she is. When
she’s ticked off and testy even I stay out of staff range.
I know what it is. It’s because I’m tall, dark and husky
and she’s short, blonde and dopey. People just assume I’m as menacing as rumour
would have them believe.
I bet Callisto would never have this trouble.
I bet she’d go through sidekicks like Gabby goes through
scrolls.
There’d be none of this protection nonsense. None of this
apologising for razing the village or denting the peasants.
They’d just blame it on the blonde in her.
I wish some one would hurry up and invent peroxide.
Or perhaps I could wear a wig.
So anyway, she disappears round a bend in the road and I finally
set out after her.
I really really have to have another talk with her about being aware
of her surroundings. I’m not even trying to be quiet and yet she’s completely
unaware that I’m here.
She’s strolling along, twirling her staff and chatting away to
herself like there’s no tomorrow.
I try to get closer to hear what she’s saying.
No sooner have I moved than I spot them. Or rather, I smell them and
my nose waits for my eyes to catch up.
A gang of the scruffiest looking bandits I have ever seen are
crouching behind a large bush at the roadside waiting for Gabrielle to pass so that they
can jump her.
Well, I’m having none of that.
As she passes, completely oblivious to the danger – as usual
– one of them draws a dagger and makes to get up.
I pull my breast dagger and hurl it through the trees. It strikes him
neatly on the side of the head, hilt first and he drops like a stone.
Gabrielle disappears round a bend in the road just as the others pile
on top of me and start to use me as a punch bag.
I break a nail sending them off into the arms of Morpheus.
That bard is going to pay for this, big time.
Those bandits got in one or two good hits and I am favouring my ribs
by the time I catch up to her.
I slip into the undergrowth, glad my suffering is over.
I should have known better.
That sound…that terrible sound…
Oh gods, she’s singing again.
We’ve talked and talked about her singing and I thought I had
finally convinced her to stop.
It frightens the animals.
Now, Gabrielle has nearly as many skills as me – she can cook a
mean rabbit, she can make fish taste good, she knows which herb will cure a sniffle and
which one will chemically castrate a man with as much pain as possible, she can take out
men twice her size with that staff, she can charm the birds out of the trees and she knows
more dirty limericks than anyone else alive.
Singing, though, is not her strong point.
To put it bluntly, we’ve been chased out of more villages due to
her singing than my barbarian rampages of years gone by.
Apparently the hens stop laying, the cows dry up and the hunting is
all scared away.
She has nearly as many “wanted” posters out for her as I
have. But none of mine come with “as many gags as you can carry”.
She promised me she wouldn’t sing within ear shot of another
living creature again – and from the startled, almost comatose-with-fear, look on the
face of the deer I just passed, there are definitely living creatures around.
I shall have to have a word with her about keeping promises and
cruelty to dumb animals. (Dumb animals which are also wishing they were deaf to boot.)
But if I do that she’ll know I followed her and I’d end up
on the wrong end of a bardic hissy fit.
A low growl drags me back to the present and I spot a large black
puma prowling through the undergrowth towards the warbling bard.
It has that look on its face. You know the one. The “I’m a
down to earth, solitary creature who usually only shows his face to hunt. I have never
hurt a human being but that godsawful sound has driven me over the edge” look.
It watches through slitted yellow eyes as she approaches and it
prepares to pounce.
I like to think it is my stealth that catches it off guard as I throw
myself onto its back and bear it to the ground.
Have you ever tried wrestling a puma quietly?
It’s not easy.
I have one hand clamped round its huge jaw to keep it from both
roaring and biting, while the other hand is frantically looking for my breast dagger.
It’s only when I get my arm caught in my own breast plate that I
remember I left it next to the unconscious bandit back up the road.
Next thing I know, the puma cuffs me a good one and I’m flying
through the air with one arm down my front as the big cat races off after the caterwauling
bard.
As it speeds back along the road towards Gabrielle, I am forced to
use my final weapon.
I hurl my trusty chakram and watch as it bounces off of the
animal’s head. The puma falls to the ground in a whimpering ball of fur, inches from
the bard’s feet.
Gabrielle turns and spots it – finally.
“Ooo,” she cries, “aren’t you the cutest thing in
the whole world?!”
And she pats it on the head and tickles its ribs.
Then she trots off down the road, humming tunelessly.
I reattach the chakram to my belt, adjust my body armour and follow
her.
The somewhat dazed puma gives me a slightly betrayed look as I walk
past.
I almost apologize to it.
An hour passes with no further surprises as I nurse my bruises and
plan many many none-lethal yet highly humiliating ways of getting back at the bard without
giving myself away.
My warrior senses start tingling seconds before a rather tuneful
voice can be heard singing in the distance. I squint into the sunshine and spot the
familiar face of Falafel the trader pushing his rickety cart along the road towards us.
Gabrielle pulls herself up to her full, not very substantial height
and says, “She’s not here. I’m on a solo mission.”
I sit down behind a tree and sigh heavily.
Falafel’s eyes light up, “Ah,” he says, “So
you’re on an adventure!”
I can see that Gabrielle likes the sound of that and can picture our
hard earned dinars making their way into the trader’s hand, “Yeah,” she
says, “Us adventurous types need to spread our wings occasionally and try something
new.”
Red rag. Bull. Let’s get acquainted.
He plucks a box from his cart and holds it out to her along with a
large spoon, “Here. This is perfect for adventurous types.”
Gabrielle opens the box and sniffs the contents, “What is
it?”
“It’s a happy brown bean all the way from the depths of the
unknown world,” says the trader, “a few mouthfuls of this will make you brave
and bold. Perfect for adventures.” He looks around cautiously, “I have heard
that some folk have taken to mixing it with water to drink but, between you and me, that
kind of dulls the effect.”
Gabrielle takes another sniff at the box, “How much,” she
asks.
Falafel claps his hands, “For you, little bard person, three
dinars.”
“One.”
“Two.”
“Deal.”
I watch as Falafel waves goodbye, kisses the two shiny coins
Gabrielle has placed in his palm and pushes his cart back along the road to look for
another sucker.
Gabrielle, for her part, strolls along without a care in the world,
crunching on generous spoonfuls of the happy brown bean and waiting to become brave and
bold.
This is ridiculous.
This half-day journey is going to end up taking a week to complete.
I know she says a person should take time out to smell the flowers
but does that have to mean every single flower? And does she have to talk to every blessed
cute’n’furry animal that crosses her path?
She’s got her staff tucked under her arm while she scoops up
Falafel’s happy brown bean concoction like it’s the best thing since Pocket
Pita. She’s darting from one side of the road to the other examining things that
don’t need examining and chatting to herself nineteen to the dozen.
If I didn’t know better I’d say she’s been at the
henbane again.
Without warning, she comes to a complete halt and lets her staff fall
to the ground. I manage to conceal myself in a bush not ten feet away from her, my senses
alert for danger.
No bandits come haring round the corner; no Cyclops is on the look
out for lunch. As far as I can tell there is nothing threatening within a mile of this
place.
I frown over at Gabrielle. She is staring at the spoon in her hand.
A squirrel ventures out of the undergrowth and sits and twitches its
nose at her.
I shall have to ask her what went on on her wedding night. Only
virgins and sorcerers should have this kind of affect on animals and as far as I know, she
sure ain’t no sorcerer.
She looks at the squirrel and then back at the spoon. “You
know,” she says to the squirrel, “When she hasn’t got her chakram, Xena can
make anything ricochet off of trees. I mean, look at my best frying pan.”
The squirrel wiggled its nose at her.
“She’s told me how she does it,” she says, “She
said some of it’s in the wrist but most of it’s in the head.” She gave her
arm a flex and grinned at the squirrel, “I bet I can do it. I bet there’s no big
secret to it. That’s why she won’t let me near it. It’s not because
I’ll cut my own hand off, it’s because she knows I’ll be as good as
her.”
I shake my head, and make a mental note to have a long talk with her
later.
With an awful imitation of my battle cry, Gabrielle hurls the spoon
at the nearest tree.
Blow me if it doesn’t ricochet neatly off an overhanging branch
and hurtle onto the next tree where it does the same again.
At this point Gabrielle is jumping up and down shouting, “Yeah!
You and your so called secrets Xena Warrior Faker!”
I frown at her, a little hurt, and take my eye off the rocketing
spoon for a second. I look back just as it flies towards me and hits me right between the
eyes.
I hear Gabrielle say: “Oh bugger, I’ve lost my spoon”
then everything goes black.
By the time I wake up it is almost dark and Gabrielle is long gone.
I fight back a feeling of panic and hare off down the road expecting
to find her battered and bruised body at every turn.
A candle mark of running later and the air is filled with birdcalls
as masked, heavily armed Amazons swoop down from the trees and surround me.
I clasp my hands above my head in the sign of peace and manage to
croak, “Where’s Gabrielle?”
One of the Amazons lifts her mask revealing a mess of blonde curls
and I recognise Ephiny. She hands me a water skin and I gulp down a much-needed drink.
“Gabrielle is at the village,” she says.
“Is she all right?”
“She’s fine,” says Ephiny, “It’s the
centaurs I feel sorry for.”
“Why?”
“She talked them into submission. I’ve never seen anything
like it. I don’t know what she’s on, but after two candle marks of listening to
her, I think they would have agreed to give up their lands and become followers of Pegasus
if she’d asked them.”
I follow them back to the village and spot the bard standing next to
a sparkling lake, chatting to Queen Melosa and a somewhat frightened looking centaur
prince.
Gabrielle comes running over and gives me a hug, my bruised ribs
making themselves known, “What are you doing here?” she asks.
I shrug, “Thought I’d stop by for a visit.”
She drags me over to Melosa and the wide eyed centaur, chatting none
stop, “We’ve sorted out the treaty,” she says, “they’re allowed
to hunt on our lands so long as they surrender a quarter of the catch. In return they will
agree to provide us with weapons and supplies during time of war and we promise not to
feed them hay at Council meetings.”
“Oh good,” I mutter, “well done.”
She looks up at me with a frown, “I thought you’d be
happy.”
My head is aching and I check to see whether the spoon is imbedded in
my forehead, “I am happy,” I tell her, “deliriously.”
She sniffs and turns away, “You know what your problem is, Xena?
You’re just annoyed that I was right and you were wrong. That was the easiest journey
I’ve every taken. No bandits, no thugs, no accidents. You’re just getting fussy
in your old age and you can’t bear to admit that I can take care of myself.”
I want to smack her one, I really do, but one or two things stop me.
Gabrielle would cry, I’d never forgive myself and the Amazons would string me up,
cover me in honey and let the ants and crawly things eat me.
And believe me, that may sound kinky but it bloody well hurts.
So I take the only option left open to me. I push her in the lake and
leave her subjects to pull her out.
You have no idea how good it felt.
Disclaimer: Xena was battered, bruised, bopped and beaten during the writing of this fiction. Being a warrior, though, she soon recovered and was last seen chasing Gabrielle through the streets of Athens waving a spoon in a rather threatening manner.