Lords Of The Dark Fall - Fabian

by C A Nicks

  If he left her here, unprotected, her virtue would not last the day. The purgatory of the Dark Fall had forced him to examine things he would have rather left buried. An immortal had no use for a conscience, but now he’d seen hell and it terrified him. Being mortal was altogether too sobering an experience.

  “Is your word worth the price of your soul?”

  “My word is my bond,” she replied. He did not miss the glimmer of hope shining in her eyes. “How sound is yours?”

  “As constant as the mountains yonder. I mean you no harm. I am no Jura. Neither am I a mercenary. Simply someone who wants to return to his own world. Remain where you are while I retrieve the weapons, then you will take me home with you, clothe and feed me and I will be on my way. Do you agree?”

  “Deal.”

  He side-stepped carefully towards the discarded weapons, already feeling the energy draining from him. The woman watched him with the keen eyes of a hunter, not the gaze of one who trusts. She judged the moment perfectly, rolling and pushing to her feet as he turned to pick up the short sword. By the time he’d reacted, she had one foot in the stirrup and was mounting the circling beast. Driven by anger now, he threw himself at her and managed to dislodge her foot. She kicked out, catching him on the chin before sliding with a yell from the saddle.

  Energy shot through his veins as his body remembered what it was made for. Easily he caught her hair and wound it around his fist, jerking her close to his face. Mutinously, she glared back at him, full in the eye, without blinking. Few had done that and lived to relate the tale. The short sword pressed into the tender skin of her throat, harder than she deserved, for he saluted her bravery and understood her desperation.

  “So, this is what your word is worth?”

  “I don’t make deals with scum like you. How long would you have let me live, once you’d got what you wanted?”

  “Unlike yours, my word is worth the breath,” he said close to her ear. She flinched and leaned away, as if his touch would burn her. He snaked out his tongue and ran it along the line of her jaw, amused rather than angered, by her outraged shriek. Mortals were so easy to read. Even as she strained away from him, the woman in her was softening and preparing. He was hard against her back, and she was melting into him. He pressed himself sinuously into the dip of her waist.

  “Don’t kid yourself, mister. Takes more than a barbarian in a loincloth to get me hot. I prefer my men a little more civilised.”

  “Barbarian?” The sword twitched, causing her to back farther into him to avoid the keen blade. “Do you know who I am?”

  “I don’t care who you are. Just take the ride and let me go.”

  “I am Fabian Lucimanticus Persidio of Alurides. King and most high lord of the seven plateaus. And scourge of women,” he added when she let out a disbelieving snort.

  “Didn’t I just know you’d have a pretentious name? Well, Fabio, you don’t impress me.”

  In another life, he’d have relished the challenge. This tiny creature, who fitted so neatly into the crook of his elbow, would have been one for the harem. There, he would have shown her exactly how an Anxur king impressed the female sex. “It’s Fa-bi-an,” he said. “Do me the honour of yours.”

  “My what?”

  “Your name, you stupid woman. Don’t anger me. I’ve cut people’s throats for less.”

  “Tig. My name is Tig.”

  “Tig? That is all? It is a stupid name.”

  “Only marginally less stupid than yours.” She gave a token struggle to let him know she hadn’t given up the fight. “Do I look as if I need a bigger name?”

  “You do not. I’ll grant you that.” He pushed her away and grasped the beast’s bridle instead. “Take off your shirt.”

  Fear flashed across her face. “You said you didn’t want my virtue.”

  “I think your virtue is long-gone, Tig. I need it to bind your hands with.”

  She turned and ran.

  “Or I will kill Cafino.”

  She kept on running, then slowed and turned to face him. “To me. Cafino, to me!” she cried, following the command with a shrill, two-fingered whistle. Cafino bucked in an effort to free himself from Fabian’s determined hold. Fabian’s attempt to throw himself across the saddle ended with a kick to the shin that made him roar out his frustrations to the heavens. When he looked up, Tig was laughing at him, her expression gentling when she saw his distress.

  “He’s a kicker,” she said, pointing to the beast. She raised her hands, palms facing him in a gesture he understood well. “Look, this is getting us nowhere. If you were going to kill me, you would have by now. You look about to collapse. Let’s call a truce. I’ll take you to the farm and see to those injuries. Then, when you’re healed, we’ll take the wagon into the township and see about getting you home. What do you say to that?”

  Yes, his body screamed. Food, clothes, shelter. Salve for the cuts, a splint for his arm. Tig’s offer was too tempting for a mortal body that had reached its limits. No, his pride countered. It was all that remained. He would not yield it easily.

  “I say that like all women, you talk too much. Take off the shirt,” he said evenly. “Or I kill the beast.”

  “Fine,” Tig nodded, more as an acknowledgement of the stance he was forced to take, than a capitulation to his superiority. “We’ll do it your way.”

  Rain. As her coat dropped to the ground, the heavens opened, soaking them in a heartbeat with driving relentless rain. Fabian opened his mouth and tipped back his face, letting it cool his parched skin. He tilted his head so he could drink and watch Tig reluctantly disrobe. Through the sheeting rain, he caught vague glimpses of white flesh, the darker tips of her nipples, outlined by the rain against her flimsy undergarment. This half-dressed rain-drenched waif of a girl, who, under the bulky coat was even slighter than he’d imagined, had no idea what an erotic spectacle she presented.

  For a moment, he was completely in her thrall, and glad of the distance between them, although she did not watch him with other than fleeting glances as she fumbled back into the coat. His control was a gossamer thread, about to snap. A thousand years without a woman would do that to a man, he supposed.

  “There.” She pushed back her dripping hair and offered the shirt. Shouting now above the noise of the deluge, she commanded Cafino to stay so he could release his death-hold of the beast.

  He did so with great relief, flexing his unbroken arm to release the tension. Tig’s trust in him was unnerving, a feeling he’d rarely indulged. Only in the bedroom, had a woman offered her wrists to him with such compliance. But Tig was not being bound for his pleasure. She was master here, not he; he recognised that in the way she clamped her wrists together so he could easily tie the knot while still holding the sword. The patience in her eyes when his shaking fingers fumbled and would not obey. He left the knot loose, so loose she could escape at any time. She acknowledged the concession with a half smile and inclined her head towards the saddle-packs.

  “Drink,” she said. “And then, let’s get out of this rain.”

  He was shaking now, in earnest. But not from the cool chill of rain on bare skin. To give a thirsty man water was no small kindness. To place your life into the hands of an unknown in order that they might salvage their pride? In all of the heaped tributes of gold and silver, palaces and land he’d received, never before had anyone offered him so precious a gift.

  Now that he’d tied her hands, he realised she could not easily mount the beast. And he had little in the way of strength left to help her.

  “What happened to you?” she asked with genuine concern in her voice.

  Tipping the water-bottle to his mouth, he watched her slow appraisal of his hacked off hair and the bruises that should have been battle honours but only signified defeat, adorning his skin. Soft fingers drew a line over the break in his arm. “Where is your home, warrior?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied, willing her to touch him again. Spontaneous affection. Is t
his how it felt? Compared to Tig’s simple and touching concern, the bowing and scraping of those who’d frequented his court, the women who’d extolled his prowess, seemed so hollow. Wealth and power made a man easy to love. Now who would even look at him twice? Stripped of all he was, penniless and wearing a blanket he’d stolen from a beast.

  “Come on, Fabio.” Tig nimbly manoeuvred herself into the saddle, despite her bound wrists. “Climb up behind me before anyone else sees you.”

  She did not ask if he required help, for which he was grateful. And she was still smiling, as she did whenever she mispronounced his name. While he struggled to mount, she might have kicked the beast into action and left him lying on the wet sand for predators to pick clean. He was pathetically grateful when he’d finally mounted and wrapped his arms around her to reach for the reins.

  At last, after a thousand years of uncertainty, something positive. She was small and foolhardy and far too insolent. But she was a lifesaver and worth her weight, in the finest gold. No, he thought, resting his broken arm on the softness of her breasts. She was worth far more. This was a gift he would never be able to repay.

  * * * *

  The male of the species never ceased to amaze her. And not in a good way. By the time they reached the farm, she was wearing Fabian like a second coat. Barely conscious, he refused to relinquish the reins, lolling over her and becoming heavier with every passing moment. Tig steered Cafino with her thighs and knees, although the beast would have probably been able to find its way home blindfold.

  She pulled the animal up, well clear of the picket fence marking the edge of her property and surveyed her domain with a practiced eye. The house, the outbuildings, the fields beyond. The main road looked clear of traffic. Squatters were the biggest problem. If they got in, she could kiss goodbye to the farm. And in these lean times, if she lost this, she had few assets left to earn her living.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Fabian tensed around her, pulling her in almost protectively, until she gave the all-clear.

  “Just checking I haven’t picked up any unwanted guests in my absence. I pay my protection money, but you never know.”

  “You pay for protection?”

  She laughed and shook her head. “How do you think I manage to live out here and survive intact?”

  Fabian murmured his understanding. “It looks peaceful enough.”

  “It is.” She urged Cafino forward, taking care to navigate the boulders her father had placed to stop wheeled vehicles approaching from the blind side. “My ex wouldn’t let anything happen to me.”

  “What’s an ex?”

  “Ex husband,” she said, distracted by the sight of her home. In a world as bleak as this, there was no place like it. She ought to embroider a plaque and place it over the hearth saying just that.

  “You have a husband?”

  The incredulous tone took her aback. In the split second between her words and his reaction to them, he’d tightened his hold on her, almost as if he expected said husband to appear and challenge him to an ownership battle. Or perhaps he meant to use her as a shield?

  He had no idea how vulnerable his position really was.

  “Had a husband. Married the local warlord. Thought it would offer my family the chance of a normal life. Didn’t work out. But he’s not a bad guy, given his past.” She hooked her leg over Cafino’s neck and slid from his back. “Gives me a good discount on the protection tribute, otherwise I’d never be able to afford it.” She grinned up at Fabian, who still looked stunned at the news. “And he makes sure my pottery gets top price at the best markets. I make dishes, mugs, jars. If you can eat or drink from it, I’ll make it. Got a small workshop and kiln out back.”

  “Oh.”

  “Well, I’ve got to scrape a living somehow. Can we dispense with this?” She held up her bound wrists. “Strikes me as a little redundant in the circumstances.”

  Fabian opened his mouth to reply. He narrowed his eyes, as if trying to remember why she was wearing a shirt on her wrists, swayed twice and then slithered wordlessly from Cafino to land in an unconscious heap at her feet.

  “Well, I guess that answers the question.” Tig regarded him with the pity he’d begged for earlier, shaking her wrists to free them. She kneeled beside Fabian and placed a hand on his chest. Breathing deep and even - a good sign. The blanket had loosened, exposing the kind of hard, flat stomach men acquired from years of training. His massive biceps and well-muscled thighs told the same story. He groaned and opened his eyes. Tig ran her fingers over what was left of his thick, dark hair, still wet from the storm, and gave him a reassuring smile. The first man she’d seen with such short hair. Stolen, most likely, along with his clothing and pack.

  A striking face, although she was not so good a judge of men’s beauty, having married a one-eyed desert-pirate with a wooden hand. And for his money, too. Beauty never came into it. This man, she imagined, had only to crook the smallest finger to have women fighting over him.

  “Fabian? When did you last eat?”

  “A thousand years ago.”

  “Feels like that sometimes, doesn’t it? Can you stand? I make a mean pot-luck stew.”

  “Don’t go.”

  His hand convulsed around her ankle. She took it, gently and enfolded it in hers. On his deeply-tanned skin, she noticed two whiter patches, about his wrists, as if he’d worn something habitually. Wrist-guards, most likely. Further up his arms, just above the elbow, were similar white circles. Sticky blood clotted around the hole caused by the crossbow bolt.

  “You must try to stand. No way can I carry you. Or even drag you. Wouldn’t you like to sleep in a real bed?”

  “Sleep here,” he mumbled. His eyes closed, slowly and he lay so still she thought briefly, he’d died on her. Then his chest expanded in a shuddering breath. Fell again. Tig released the breath she’d been holding and sat back, onto her heels.

  “You can’t be seen. If anyone finds you here… Fabian, I need to bed down Cafino. Then I’ll be back for you. You just have a little rest. I’ll return in a short while.”

  He gave no indication of hearing or that he cared whether he was lying all-but naked on a stony path being watched by a strange woman and an ugly horse. Cafino turned to nibble at his blanket, dislodging it and exposing the part of Fabian she’d been studiously trying to ignore. How could he be so casually naked around a woman? He’d shown not one jot of embarrassment or discomfort at any time. History books showed warriors fighting naked, but that was from eras long gone. No one was stupid enough to do that now. And Fabian certainly didn’t look stupid.

  “Come on, Cafino.” Tig rose, stretching out her cramped legs. Two sharp clicks of the tongue had the beast trotting obediently after her. When they passed the hay-meadow, she grasped his bridle and dragged him past the tempting grasses to the stables housed in the barn.

  “Sorry boy. Got too much to worry about tonight. I’ll turn you out tomorrow. Promise.”

  Cafino answered in that strange way he had of talking to her. Tig liked to think the beast understood. Better than talking to herself. Something she also indulged in far too much during the long, lonely nights. Normally, she would have whiled away the time brushing and feeding him. Turning his bedding. Tonight, she had an injured and very naked man asleep on the path with no idea how to get him into the house. A man who would bring a small fortune in the slave markets, if the wrong people got to him first.

  Or a new roof. Four tin buckets littered the stable floor, steadily filling drop by drop with rain-water dripping through broken tiles.

  By sunrise tomorrow, Fabian might have changed hands three times before he landed in the slave market at Morido. Slavery was an abomination, yes, but morals were costly. The desire to live a worthy life warred constantly with the need to survive. A well-negotiated cut would buy her out of here and into one of the townships where she could earn her licence and join the craftsmen guild. Make something of herself.

  Get thee behind
me, she muttered to the devil of temptation sitting on her shoulder. Fleetingly, she wondered if Fabian’s family might pay a reward for his safe return. Everything about him screamed nobleman, or chieftain. Perhaps even prince. She gave a short, dry laugh. She might as well wish Cafino would sprout wings and suddenly learn to fly.

  No. As she contemplated the gently snoring figure lying so peacefully on the path, she had the ominous feeling she’d been handed a cart-load of trouble. First task – get him hidden before someone came visiting. Second, heal and clothe him and send him on his way before anyone realised he was here. Simple.

  She kneeled beside him on the stony path and shook him gently. When had her life ever been that simple?

  Chapter 2

  In his sleep, he went home. Relived his past glories and drank with his brother. For a brief moment, on awakening, he lay blissfully suspended in that wonderful place where dreams become reality. An immense feeling of relief washed over him like the high tides of Palio-Oceana. His terrible defeat, the Fall - all a dream. Oh, thank the gods.

  But his bed was full of stones. Cold air lifted the hairs on his arms and legs. His head was strangely light, while at the same time feeling as if he’d indulged in an entire flagon of wine without stopping to draw breath. Someone was beating his arm and his chest with a hammer. Slicing at his flesh with the point of a knife.

  Unpleasant sensations filtered through, one by one, until he remembered. And then he fell, all over again, screaming out his repentance, into the black void of nothingness.

  When he awoke the second time, the pain had dulled to a tolerable, background ache and beside him was a wraith, albeit a rather scruffy-looking one, gazing down at him with eyes full of concern. He wanted to reach out and touch her to see if she was real, but his arms were too heavy, and they refused to obey.

  “I cannot die,” he told her. “The bracelets of immortality are mine by right of conquest. Why are you here?”

  Soft fingers drifted over his brow, moving to trace the line of his cheek.