"You jerk!" Malthus laughed and pummeled his friend's arm affectionately. "Thas' the millionth time you've told that story and the fish gets bigger every time!"

"Does not!" replied Botal.

"Does too!"

"Does not! And if you say 'does too' you have to buy the next two rounds!"

"In that case, Botal," Malthus grinned, "you caught it jus' like you say you did."

Malthus was a big man, six feet tall and stocky, with sun-bleached hair, light blue eyes and eyebrows that were so sun-whitened they almost disappeared. His friend was much smaller, almost delicate, with bright red hair and a rash of freckles across his broad face. His eyes were an odd color, almost golden. They both looked exactly what they were: farmers.

"Damn right." The two friends grinned at each other like fools, having reached that pleasant stage of mild inebriation where everything in the world is wonderful. They jumped when a voice boomed behind them.

"You two are supposed to be out plowing the field, not in here swapping lies!"

"I'm sorry, Father," Malthus began, "but-"

The third man was even bigger than his son, a hulking giant with a scar that pulled down one corner of his mouth so that he looked as if he were perpetually sneering. He was still impressive, though his big body had begun to run to fat.

"And you're not supposed to be drinking, either." The older man turned to the barkeep. "I thought I made myself understood before, Pandarus. No ale during the work day."

Pandarus shrugged, smiled an insincere smile and said, "I can't afford to turn down paying customers, Cinctus. Speaking of which. . . would you like another?" This last was addressed to a man who sat quietly in a corner of the tavern, hidden in the folds of a hooded cloak. It was black, but it was hard to tell if that was its original color or if it had gotten soiled during the man's travels.

"Sure." He got up and came toward the bar just as Malthus and his friend moved away. The three collided heavily; the stranger was the first to recover.

"Sorry." He stepped back and made as if to go around Malthus, but the young man suddenly grabbed his arm, peering closely into the hood to see the man's face.

"Jus' a minute. Jus' a minute. I know you."

"I don't think so."

"Yes I do. Now where-" Malthus suddenly stopped, the shock of recognition giving him an expression of both fright and determination, like a small boy who knows he's doing wrong but decides to go through with it. "I know who you are,' he hissed.

Heads began to turn as people took notice of the confrontation.

"Wonderful. Let go of me."

"No." Malthus grew belligerent, fueled by the ale and his audience. "No. I've always wanted to have a go at you."

"I'm aware of that."

"Well?" Without waiting for an answer, Malthus drew back his fist and drove it into the stranger's face. The cloaked man rocked back but didn't go down.

"HEY!" yelled Pandarus. "Take that outside."

"You bet!" Malthus grabbed the stranger's arm and pushed him out the doorway. His father, Botal and everyone else in the tavern followed them. Others, on their way in from the fields, stopped as it became apparent that something unusual was happening.

"Well?" Malthus yelled again, but this time the stranger was ready, ducked the punch and moved easily out of Malthus' range.

The farmer spun and tried to close with him, but the stranger was faster and much cleverer, and Malthus couldn't get near him. Suddenly, the man turned to Cinctus: "Take your boy home, Cinctus, before this gets out of hand."

"Take me home? Nobody takes me home! Stand still and fight me, damn you!"

"You're drunk, you clown. But even sober you can't fight me."

"We'll see about that!" Malthus suddenly lunged for his sword, which he'd left leaning against the tavern wall. He snatched it from its scabbard and sliced at the stranger, who once again evaded the blow easily.

"Stop this right now. I told you you can't fight me." The words were soft but an edge had crept into the man's voice. "Trust me, you do NOT want to do this."

Malthus' pleasant face twisted into a sneer and for a moment he looked very much like his father. "You coward," he snarled. "Jus' 'cause you don't have your powers-"

"But I still have my skills. I'm telling you, Malthus, let it go. Don't pick a fight with me. You won't survive."

At that Cinctus spoke up: "My son can fight anyone! Who the hell do you think you are? Teach him a lesson, boy!"

"For the last time, don't do this! If you raise that blade against me again, you will die today."

"I'm glad it's for the last time, because I won't have to listen to you whine any longer!"

Malthus yelled and charged at the stranger again, only to find his feet suddenly tangled in the heavy cloak. The man had whirled it off and thrown it at the younger man, tripping him. But Malthus got free and lumbered back to his feet to face his opponent. He stopped dead as he got a good look at him and the villagers went quiet; a perceptible stir ran through the women.

No one had been able to tell what he looked like when he wore the cloak, but he was revealed now, dressed in well-fitting black leather pants and a sleeveless vest. He was stunning: tall, well built, well muscled and devastatingly handsome, with thick black hair, deep brown eyes and full, sensual lips; his body every man's envy and every woman's dream. And he was armed with one of the finest swords anyone could remember seeing. His eyes were alight with the fire of battle, he was smiling and Malthus looked at him and knew his life was over.

"I warned you not to draw against me."

Malthus screamed for his father even as he flung himself at the other man. Cinctus came to help, attacking from one side while Malthus lunged from the front. Suddenly Botal was there too, and for a moment it was hard to see what was happening. Then Malthus suddenly cried out, dead before he fell from a stroke so fast he hadn't even seen it; seconds later Botal followed his friend into death.

Cinctus came on again, yelling in fear and rage, trying to overwhelm the stranger by sheer hatred. One wild cut he made, then another, then he overreached himself and the stranger's bright blade was under his guard and through his jerkin and slicing through the muscle of his heart and he was still on his feet but already dying. He stared glassily into the dark eyes of the other, as he hung spitted on the magnificent sword."I told you you would die today if you did this."

"Who are you?" Every word was an effort but he had to know, he had to understand how this had happened, before he died.

"You mean who was I?" the stranger corrected. "Ares. I was Ares."

"The . . . God of War."

"Yes." With that, Ares put his foot against Cinctus' body and yanked the sword free, tumbling the corpse into the dust. He glared at the crowd, most of whom were now backing away nervously, and yelled "Anyone else?"

It had been like this since Xena, Slayer of Gods, had murdered most of his family; since Xena, the woman he loved beyond measure and beyond life and for whom he had sacrificed everything, had said "thank you" and walked away from him, leaving his universe in ruins.

And so he wandered, trying to learn how to live as a mortal, trying to find a place to`belong, perhaps even trying to find the one thing he had never had-a friend-but there were so many people who knew who he was, who wanted nothing more than a chance to prove that they were as good as the erstwhile God of War. Every city, every village, every hamlet he visited had its share of young toughs who had to challenge him. And every one of them, dozens by now, had died at his hands.

He wiped his sword on Cinctus' shirt, sheathed it, took his cloak and walked away, hoping somewhere, somehow, to find a place in a world that no longer seemed to need him, and leaving behind yet more death. But perhaps it made no difference. He was the God of War and mortal or immortal, perhaps his only mission in life was destruction.

Or maybe he could change, could find a new purpose, as Xena had. He didn't know; all he knew was that he was alone, it was growing late, and the road ahead was bitter and long.

The End