by Joseph Connell

 To the untrained and uninitiated, the jungle could and did appear as a solid wall of greens and brown. No clear path can be immediately seen, nor any break in the thick foliage. Only those who have learned the ways of the jungle might maneuver with any speed or confidence.

Though she had rarely left the village proper, its grounds as holy as any church the Christian might consecrate, Xena had spent sufficient time with the hunters and foragers to find her way to the trading post. She'd chosen to leave long before dawn, and carried neither torch nor lantern. It was a test, to see just how much of once-sharp edge had been lost after so long at rest. Very little, she was pleased to see, her progress going unimpeded and her pace unhampered by the weight of her sword once more upon her back. She still wore the simple sandals and woven skirt of the village, but now wore a loose tunic and her wild hair gathered into a tight pony-tail. This was not out of modesty by any means, as she'd never had much concern about going unclothed, but rather for practicality. No point in giving the traders the wrong idea about what kind of payment she was willing to offer.

The dawn was only just lighting the horizon, and she well along the small trail leading from her village. The purse tied to her belt didn't so much as jingle at her steps, which were heavy as they were cautious. Despite the clear path underfoot, Xena felt every step as though she were wading hip-deep through mire. Part of her, the warrior she was and would be once more, was angry at this reluctance. The warrior demanded she stop hiding and be ready for battle once more.

The rest of her, that small and vital part of that was human, ignored the warrior and longed for the peace of her village. The longing to reverse her steps, to shatter the sword and toss the coins into the forest, was strong. So very strong. She longed, but knew it could not be. Just as she could no more ignore the essential fire of her being any more than she might the cry of a child in pain. True, she had once let herself be consumed by that fire in younger days, at the head of her warlord army, and now ever guarded against it. But the fire that might burn and destroy might also warm and light the way through darkness. Xena had learned to be the latter, having feasted too long on the ashes of the former.

Ironically, it had been Ares himself who'd made the decision for her. "The weapons more destructive," he'd said of the world with such confidence and pride, convincing Xena of every word. "The people, more hateful." Such a world needed her. She nearly chuckled aloud at her egotism, knowing it was more than simply that. She was too much the wanderer. Ares had simply provided her the excuse. But more than this, her heart could no longer stand to be closed off from the wider world. Gabrielle had worked her magic on her too well, and her wounded and stony heart had been opened too wide now.

It didn't matter what weapons she now faced, or how many armies were massed. There were wars to end, and innocents to save.

Again Xena heard a chuckle issue, hearing her bard's voice in such a sentiment.

As she walked, keeping a sharp ear out for the least sound of some opportunistic predator looking to make her its morning meal, Xena pondered her dream. Gabrielle visiting her this way was no surprise. Her bard, gone so very long, had become something of a regular feature in her dreams. Often it would be some distant memory or event in their lives that was relived, though occasionally she appeared in odd dress and speaking in strange languages. On these occasions she seemed panicked and teary-eyed, babbling about her "fainting." Invariably the minions of one or another of the gods made an appearance, only to be dispatched with speed and efficiency. Gabrielle always appeared...shocked at seeing this, staring as though at a total stranger. These dreams never lasted long, and were few and far between; Xena could recount their number on one hand alone. Half a hand at best. She was secretly glad for this, the look in Gabrielle's eyes too close to condemnation for her fragile control to endure.

But this latest one puzzled her, leaving her shaken as never before. Ares personal appearance (there was no mistaking his smug presence or unbridled presence) and their fight (her joints still aching from the exertion, however illusionary) had with them a feeling of such vivid clarity and desperation she couldn't help but wonder...wonder at the familiar feel of the tomb the dream had placed her in...wonder at the inherent at the inherent she'd felt with Gabrielle's doppelganger...with the body she'd awakened in...

Wonder...could it have been more than a dream?

Xena could not stop the thought from surfacing time and again, however chill it left her.

She seen nothing of the gods for two millennia. Nothing. They'd done nothing as the one God of the Israelites and that young prophet from Nazareth came to prominence, their temples rededicated (or simply destroyed) in its honor. Artemis herself had turned a blind eye to the rape and murder of the last of her Amazons on Milikion. One and all had seemingly turned their collective backs on their former worshipers, letting all that they had built be torn down and nearly forgotten. Yet now she was suddenly trading blows with War himself? Xena stubbornly refused to think of the experience as anything more than a dream; a particularly vivid and unsettling one, granted, but nothing more than the fancy of a fevered mind.

Ares words continued to haunt her steps all the same. "And there's a new leader. A lot of vision. A lot of potential. His name's… Hitler."

"Not for much longer, Ares," Xena vowed under her breath, low enough even the god would have to strain to hear her. The only question in her mind was how long it would take her to find and deal with this "Hitler." She'd infiltrated Ming Teing's fortress without breaking the least sweat. The poor fool probably had never seen a battlefield in his life, leading his country through guile and wits, all for his own personal glory rather than for the betterment and safety of his people. That was the sort of leader Xena had seen developing when she'd left New York and its sister colonies in disgust, just seven years after they'd won their independence from England. Thinking on it, such a leader was the sort Ares would make good use of. Not the General, but the King who ordered the General to fight pointless battle after pointless battle.

She could only hope she might get to the fool before he cause too many deaths.

******

She'd reached the clearing marking half-way between the village and the river, deciding to rest a few moments there. The sun was a quarter above the horizon, its strong light breaking through the canopy of trees here and there in bright shafts, when she caught the first stirrings of the Quickening.  Xena froze at the familiar sensations: the shortening of breath, her guts suddenly clenching hard, the rush of phantom wind in her ears. The moment passed quickly and actually left her winded and dizzy. It had been so long since she'd last felt it…

Her hand automatically went for the sword's handle, stopping short of drawing it when she caught rough voices disturbing the jungle's midmorning chorus. She was hardly opposed to a duel, at least in principle, though to do so soon after leaving sanctuary was certainly not something she looked forward to.

Then again, how could it be avoided?

There were several voices, all male and low. The last thing any duel needed was an audience. For this reason, more than any real reluctance, Xena immediately dove into the thick green lining the circular clearing. Even she was surprised at how limber her joints proved, and how easy it proved to climb the nearest tree silently. She hadn't consciously chosen which tree to use as her perch, letting her body act on instinct. Clearly those instincts had not decayed over the years.

Balanced, so easily as to look effortless, on one of the higher branches and half-hidden from sight by the heavy leaves, Xena looked down upon those who intruded here. She wasn't surprised to see they were European, nor that they were soldiers. Professional ones, judging by their collective bearing and the functional cut to their uniforms. This was somehow more comforting than seeing just another batch of Jesuits or the like, sparing her having to war with her conscience whether to aid them or simply let the jungle have them.

Their voices drifted up to her, carried by the still air of. Fortunately they were German speakers, so she didn't have to strain too hard to understand them, blood heating with each sentence caught.

******

Christian van Treischman mopped his brow for what must have been the tenth time in half as many minutes, hating the damp heat of this jungle and longing for the cool alps of his native Bavaria. The men accompanying him, a sizable detachment of 11 Reich KommandoGruppe, likewise suffered and groused from the heat, but at least had the good sense to do so quietly and keep at least some of their wits about them. The danger didn't come from the Fuhrer's enemies, there being little chance either the British or Americans knowing of their presence here. Even if they did, the British were too occupied fending off the Luftwaffe and readying themselves for the inevitable invasion to spare the resources to pursue them, and the American's were too decadent and lazy in their isolation to care. Russia was hardly a threat, that madman Stalin murdering his best minds to realize he was certain to be the next to fall, as France had already fallen.

No, what endangered them was the jungle itself. Treischman had lived too long not to appreciate how dangerous such wild territory was. He'd been on enough games hunts (and not only for four-legged prey) to know just how canny and lethal an adversary the land could be. He didn't honestly expect the bulk of his men to survive this little expedition. Oh, they were all well trained and brave, almost to a fault. Many hand been among the infiltration teams who'd opened the Blitzkrieg against France. But looking into their eyes, it was clear they were ill-suited to the mission at hand, so far from the least sign of civilization or any of its comforts.

Which to Treischman's mind made this entire operation all the more suspect. That it had been authorized by Himmler himself didn't particularly impress the aristocrat; "Little Heini" was too obsessed with his mysticism and impossible dreams of an Aryan utopia for Treischman to take seriously. Only the prestige (and justifiable fear) of his Schutzstaffel stormtroopers kept the Wehrmacht from doing the sane thing and eliminating the lot of them. Several of the men actually were SS, though even he wasn't sure which. An open secret which kept protests to a minimum.

Treischman had little interest in Hitler or his so-called Reich, having seen and heard it all before. Several times before, actually. His involvement in the war was strictly out of boredom. And this so-called mission, bah! "Seek and secure the treasures of the seven cities of El Dorado on behalf of the Fuhrer and the Reich. Failing that, establish a clear route by which future expeditions will follow." What nonsense, if only on grounds of logistics. He'd easily need five times as many men as he had now to commit even a half-decent search of the region. He might as well be leading an expedition to seek and secure the Golden Fleece or King Soloman's diamond mines. Himmler had sent expeditions to Tibet to acquire the pelt of a Yeti, and off into the Macedonian deserts to dig up everything from the Hebrew Ark of the Convenent to the bones of Joseph of Aramatheia. No small irony there, given the rumors Treischman had heard of what was starting up in those camps in Poland and elsewhere.

The aristocrat shook his head at the sheer waste of it. Just as well he'd taken this assignment; it was coming time to…reassess his participation in the Third Reich.

"Herr Colonel." It was his NCO, Unteroffizier Dachler, hurrying towards him. Dachler had been carrying rear-guard position, using his formidable size (none of it fat) and rank to keep the rest in formation and moving. Compared to Treischman's natural and hansome (if bored) profile, the Unteroffizier nearly simian in the blunt construction of his face and manner. He kept his voice low and "This heat is leaving the men too worn to continue at this pace, sir. They need to rest, sir."

Treischman rather admired his NCO's frankness, and had long ago crossed the man off his mental list of possible SS agents within the detachment. He wasn't about to undercut his own standing with these still-unknown agents, however, by appearing too soft, no matter how much he agreed with the assessment. If his own fatigue were anything to go by, then his men were positively dying in their dark fatigues and heavy field packs. Add to that it wasn't even noon, and he wouldn't have to wait for some jungle predator to get to them. The heat alone would do them all in. A part of him wasn't necessarily opposed to such a contingency, as it would certainly make his planned relocation easier.

With a sigh, Treischman realized he was too much the old Teutonic knight to drive men under his command to suicide so casually. For the benefit of those listening with a different pair of ears, he said "We've only been underway five hours, Sargent, and still have much ground to cover."

"We will cover even less should the men simply collapse where they are, sir."

The aristocrat snorted and gave a short nod, stopping in his tracks as he did. Looking upwards, into the trees, his face taking a distant look as the men marched by. They'd just arrived at a wide clearing, one whose dimensions and size were too exact to be natural. There was soft patches of moss here and there, along with evidence of small fires all arrayed around shallow pit filled with charred wood and debris that took up the clearing's center. The trees and branches formed an incomplete dome overhead, which alternately lit and cooled the area. The jungle was very much alive around them, its natural din going undisturbed by their arrival to this place. Perfect, was the only thought that came to mind.

Treischman shook himself out of his momentary trance, seeing Dachler watching him with some concern. "We will camp here for the day, Unteroffizier. Have the men bivouac and detail guards on rotation. We'll press on at sixteen-hundred hours."

"Javoul," the Unteroffizier piped up, turning and already yelling orders to the men. Treischman was deaf to it all, his eyes and attention for the trees alone, feeling unseen eyes upon him and his.

While the men settled, he took to wandering about the perimeter, eyes not leaving the unbroken greenery surrounding them all. He half-caught snatches of conversation among them. Boasts of girl back home and experiences in the field, sneers against all non-Germans, camaraderie in the form of crude ralbard jokes. Treischman heard it all, and listened to none of it.

At some point, he passed a couple of young troopers engaged in a rather animated discussion about the natives. "I hear they're all headhunters here," one was saying.

"Hmph," his comrade growled. "I've read studies about these tribes. The men all have six wives."

They both snickered lustily at the thought. "I wonder what we're to do if we encounter any."

Treischman, who'd been standing directly behind the pair of them, his back to them and hands clasped severely to the small of his spine, tossed casually over his shoulder "What we do with all inferior races, Private. Exterminate them all." It was Party rhetoric of course and the aristocrat didn't believe a word of it. He said it just for the benefit of ears listening for such 'loyal' sentiments, continuing on his way.

There was the distant sound of birds disturbed from their rest, fluttering noisily upwards. For the first time that day, Chrisitan van Treischman smiled. Perhaps there was sport to be had here, after all. A bit of…hunting even.

"Dachler," he called out, sensing the NCO's quick approach. Without turning, he informed the large soldier "We'll stay the night here. Let the men get a decent rest in, yes? See to it."

This said, he put all thought of his men aside, turning wholly towards the hunt to come. His smile grew as feral as the eyes he felt center upon him from deep within the green beyond. "Tonight!" was the promise he gave to the wind, which carried it to the ears it was meant for.

A slight ripple, almost going unseen, to the jungle before him whispered in reply, answering on the hidden one's behalf.

The night could not come soon enough.

 To be continued…

Glossary:

Blitzkrieg - German for "Lightning War"; strategy of combined armor and infantry attack with heavy air support pioneered by the German Wehrmacht in World War II.

El Dorado - one of seven (likely mythical) cities made of or housing great treasures of pure gold supposedly hidden in the Latin American jungles.

NCO - anagram for Non-commissioned Officer; highest-ranking enlisted man in a military unit, generally sergeant or higher.

Schutzstaffel - German for "Elite Guard", formal name for the Nazi SS.

Unteroffizier - German army equivalent of sergeant.

Wehrmacht - term for combined German armed forces between 1935 and 1945; no longer in use.

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