Lords Of The Dark Fall - Fabian

by C A Nicks

  Whether he went home or not, he had to believe that’s where he was destined.

  * * * *

  He’d forgotten what magic a woman’s mouth could make. And that there was a time and place for such indulgence. Loose and relaxed, satisfied and grinning from ear to ear were not the demeanour of a warrior bracing for battle.

  His time would be better spent studying Warrington’s strengths and weaknesses. In finding out what, apart from Tig, motivated Hal. And in learning how to fire this rifle. Until he could once more command magic, he must rely on these weapons and on himself.

  Both mentally and physically, he must prepare himself for the days to come.

  The bodies should be burned or buried deep, where no man or beast could find them. They deserved no less for defiling the peace of this place. Giving quarter to the enemy? Not something he had much experience of.

  The bodies lay where they’d fallen, a sticky mess of blood drying around the wounds, staining the dirt floor. Fabian crouched and pulled out the bolts, which at least had value and could be reused. Looked around for something to throw over the dead.

  Cafino whickered anxiously when he crossed the barn to the neatly-folded tarpaulin. Here there were no legions of stable-boys to see to the horses. No trainers to hone the beasts for tournament and battle.

  What would his brother make of him atop this strange animal? Clothed in a farmer’s cast-offs? Marcellus would never let him forget it. He, of all people, must never know.

  Glancing from the open window, he read the sky. A fine day in prospect. He would turn Cafino out in to the corral. Better keep the beast close if visitors were expected. And then train. Build up some of the muscle he’d lost to this inactivity. His biceps were woefully puny of late.

  “Can you fix your own breakfast? I’d like to get down to work.”

  Tig was right behind him, and he hadn’t heard her enter the barn. She appeared amused at the way he started at her words, as usual, soothing his pride by making no mention of it. How soft had he become if he couldn’t detect someone until they were within stabbing distance?

  “Collect yourself some eggs and fry them up. But don’t kill any of the hens. I can’t afford to lose any more. Bread’s a bit on the mouldy side. I’ll make some more tomorrow if that’s okay.”

  “The service here leaves a lot to be desired,” he said flinging the tarpaulin over the bodies. Tig burst into a round of raucous laughter.

  “The old jokes are the best,” she said and left him wondering what was so amusing. The way she could laugh when danger lurked over the horizon never ceased to impress him.

  He led Cafino to the corral and then took himself off to the hen-coop to scavenge for eggs. The hens were awaiting their freedom. He opened the cage and scattered a few handfuls of grain into the yard, found himself six eggs and returned to the safety of the house.

  Stable-hand, chicken-boy and now cook. All skills he’d never had need of before now. His fried eggs weren’t nearly as good as Tig’s, but he was strangely pleased with his efforts as he sat at the table and sprinkled them with precious salt. Could he ever be content with this simple life? Part of him wanted to believe he could live out his days tending animals and bringing in crops. In watching the seasons pass and come around again and again.

  The greater part of him whispered that this life was not for such as him. Born to lead and conquer and decide the fate of men, he would never be happy until he’d regained his stature and his rightful place in the order of things.

  He left the dirty skillet, the plate and fork where they lay. A token protest at this enforced domesticity. He would choose himself the heaviest of the logs and get to work on his fitness. Ten minutes of love-making had reduced him to a panting heap. This human body bruised at the merest knock. The skin tore far too easily and he’d felt inebriated after a mere five shots of the grain-spirit. He must push himself, learn his limits and then how to exceed them.

  Taking the short and long swords, he checked the yard and then let himself out the back door and returned to the barn, looking forward to a time when this skulking around would no longer be necessary. He would ask Tig to spar with him later, but not before he’d worked out the kinks and stiffness in his muscles and joints. To his shame, he had not performed the Hang-Li, the most revered of the sword-rituals in, well, a thousand years.

  There was comfort in the familiar moves. As he fell into the flow, the swing and arc of the sword, the dance-like steps, took him to a place he hadn’t been in a long time. Winning was a state of mind, something deep inside to be recalled at will. The anxiety and defeat of the past few weeks melted away as he twirled and leaped and synchronised the movement of his body with the intent of his mind. To act as one they must be as one.

  The journey ahead would be dangerous and long, but he relished the challenge, if only to prove himself still a man. There were no obstacles he could not overcome.

  Except for the one diligently working at her potter’s wheel. He finished the sequence, ending with a two handed salute to his gods. What to do about Tig? Not that it was his decision; she would do as she pleased regardless of his instructions. To move to the town she would need money and connections. Where would she live? How would she sell the farm without being cheated of its worth?

  Not his problem and yet he worried for her. Or was it the guilt of abandoning her that gave him such discomfort of mind? This accursed conscience was one thing he would not miss when he returned to immortality.

  Tig, on the other hand…

  * * * *

  Her drawings were missing. The sketches for the first story-plate, tellingly labelled the warrior who fell from the sky.

  Lord above, why didn’t she just put a big sign on the gate and have done with it? A few of the plates awaiting glazing had been knocked from the shelf, but otherwise nothing else appeared to have been taken, thank the one true god. This rate of production wouldn’t earn her enough to keep a fly, let alone pay off whoever was behind the raid.

  Hal would probably want payment in kind, the slimy bastard. She could be looking at a blackmail plot, she supposed. If this was Warrington’s doing, he would want nothing less than Fabian himself. And she’d be forced to give him up without reward for her duplicity.

  Defiantly, she flipped open her sketch-pad and sorted through her box of drawing pencils. She could still turn him in, claim her cut. Set herself up in a new life. A bit of cash in her pocket would give her the confidence to tell Hal to go fuck himself.

  Had that ever been an option?

  She cut a new point into the stubby pencil. Would be nice to be able to afford some decent artist materials. A few quality pencils and inks. Paint and maille-hair brushes. Now wouldn’t that be something?

  She would add portraits to her repertoire when she moved to town. The rich and powerful loved to see themselves immortalised on canvas. Might be a good way to curry favour with Warrington. Paint him as some ancient conquering hero. Despite his gritty exterior, the man was vain as a trille bird.

  Her head ached from lack of sleep, the uncertainty. Why bother making plans when she had no idea whether she would survive today, let alone live to sell Fabian’s story? She threw down her pencil, picked it back up again because she wasn’t a quitter and she’d always danced to her own music. Whatever she did would be her own choice.

  Damn. Whoever had taken the sketches had a pretty good representation of Fabian. Not a true likeness, thank goodness but she’d drawn him as a powerful man with hair shorter than was the fashion around these parts. That alone made him stand out.

  Her pencil flew over the page. She stopped and closed her eyes, trying to visualise Fabian as he might have been, in his old life. Dark hair, falling to his waist, a torque of gold circling his neck. On his arms, she placed the bracelets of power, two snakes entwined. In one hand a sword, the other a shield. A cloak of flowing silk covered his bare shoulders.

  Only the face was wrong. Deliberately so. A slant to the eyes, a hooked nose and a
moustache disguised him well enough. He was too handsome for his own good anyway.

  The story-plates deserved the best bone china, which would mean taking out a loan to purchase the clay, the glazes and dyes. Risky with interest rates so high. She made a quick list on the side of the drawing pad. Scored each item through. No loans. That road led to slavery of one kind or another. Once in the clutches of the loan sharks she would never be free.

  Margo’s sharp warning bark stopped her thoughts. It was answered by another, deeper and not from Drake. Sidling up to the window, Tig peered out, heart sinking to see the wagon rattling towards the gate, Hal’s great hound bounding along beside. When it spotted Drake running to greet them, it broke away and raced towards its friend. The two dogs leaped and circled each other in excitement. She saw Drake jump onto the wagon to sit proudly in the passenger seat.

  “Traitor.” She couldn’t deny the dogs loved Hal. He looked after them often enough for them to think him a master, of sorts.

  She was suddenly hot, her hands trembling. No way would she manage to hide her panic from Hal’s perceptive gaze.

  Not with two dead bodies in the barn.

  Okay, don’t even try. There’d been a small raid. She’d killed both of the intruders. End of story.

  Time to see who had the best poker-face.

  “Hal?” She met him in the yard, already jumping down from his wagon. He’d left his hair loose, perhaps to give the impression of having dropped everything to run to her aid. He strode towards her, almost knocking her over when he grabbed her shoulders and held her in place, a look of concern on his face.

  “I heard you’d had some trouble here. I came as soon as I could. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Because I smell death, Tig. You can’t hide that from me. People died here last night.”

  Steadying her expression, she stared him out. A skilled mind-bender but not that good. She shrugged.

  “Killed a wolf last night. Was after the hens. Probably what you can feel.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Tig.”

  “I’m not.”

  He huffed, rather too dramatically and gave her a pitying look. Immediately, her hackles rose. She folded her arms.

  “And why would I lie to you?”

  “Perhaps because you have something to hide?”

  She didn’t miss the deliberate glance at the barn. To her dismay, the three dogs took off towards the barn-door, barking up a frenzy.

  “Get back into your workshop.” Hal pushed her towards the doorway, his knife already unsheathed. “There’s something in the barn. I knew it.”

  “Rats,” she said. “Nothing but rats. Get off me, Hal. This is stupid.”

  “Don’t want to scare you.” Hal’s voice dropped to a low whisper. “Rumour has it there’s a stranger in these parts. Escaped from one of the prison camps, so they say. Pretty dangerous man by all accounts. Get inside. I’ll go check the barn.”

  She could barely hold back the hysterical laughter. Hal’s act was about as convincing as a cartoon villain in a bad play.

  “I’ll get my bow. Go scope it out for you.”

  Yes, and you could tidy up those bodies for me while you’re at it. Why hadn’t she let Fabian bury them as he’d wanted to?

  “Hal, there really is nothing in the barn but rats.” She forced a smile to her lips. “If you’ve come over to see me, just say it. You don’t have to make silly excuses like this.” Going up on tiptoe, she landed a quick peck on his cheek. It would take more than that to distract him, but after what she’d just done with Fabian, she couldn’t bring herself to offer more.

  He returned her a thin smile of his own, fingers reaching out to caress her hair. “If I knew you had that on your mind, I’d have come over sooner.”

  She turned away in disgust. “I’ve had a bad night, what with the wolf and all. And I need to work. Sorry you came over for nothing. I appreciate the concern, really I do.”

  “You’re a terrible liar, Tig. Did you know that?”

  “I could say the same for you.”

  “Then why don’t we stop this charade and you tell me what really happened here last night?”

  She took a moment to compose herself before facing him once more. “All right. Two raiders attacked the farm last night. What I want to know is how you know about it when neither of them lived to tell the tale.”

  “You killed them?” He sounded incredulous rather than surprised.

  “Both of them. They’re in the barn. Was coming over later today to see if you could help me dispose of them.”

  “Leave the Jura scum out for the Frey to pick clean.” He rammed the knife back into the sheath. Took hold of her chin and forced her to look at him. “You could have been killed yourself. Now do you see how dangerous it is for you out here?”

  “Well, that’s the strange thing. They weren’t Jura. Go and see for yourself. No mark of Crolos.”

  “Wild cards?”

  “Can’t blame them for trying their luck now Carson is dead. Not everyone’s sworn allegiance to Warrington?”

  Part statement, part question. A leadership challenge always brought out the wild cards. Men who took advantage of the chaos to profit where they could.

  “Warrington’s no Carson. Let me see them.”

  She rubbed her chin, trying to erase the imprint of his fingers. “Sure, go ahead. I need them gone before the wolves really do come prowling.”

  “I’ll take them and then you’re coming back with me. I won’t leave you here by yourself when everything is in such flux.”

  She ran after him. He was already striding towards the barn. Nothing she could do but hope that Fabian had either left the barn or heard the wagon and had the good sense to hide. Another probing look from Hal as that thought flitted through her mind. No use in reciting the alphabet - that would only alert him further. She concentrated her thoughts on the bodies instead, the horror that left her disturbingly cold.

  When had she become so blasé about death?

  Hal hesitated at the barn door, like a man expecting to find more than the dead. The dogs came running to greet him. Tails wagging, they ran to the tarpaulin and nosed it aside to reveal a bunched fist, a leather sleeve.

  Swallowing down her nerves, she followed Hal into the barn and watched him flip back the tarp and inspect the corpses. No reaction or recognition. Just a cursory glance at each. He covered them again and stood, wiping his hands on his jacket.

  “Warrington will want to know about this.”

  “If he does, he’ll send sentinels to the farm. I don’t want that.”

  “You won’t have a choice.”

  “What will it take to keep this to yourself?”

  “You know what I want.”

  “Fine. I’ll marry you. You wanted an answer and now you have it.”

  He was already leaving the barn, crossing the yard to his wagon. She jumped out of his path when he whipped up the horse and charged towards the barn door.

  “Did you hear me, Hal?” She grabbed his arm, stopping him when he jumped down. “Warrington doesn’t have to know about this.”

  Efficiently, he loaded the bodies into the wagon, rolling them both into the tarp, tying it down so it wouldn’t blow away. Though her nerves were screaming for him to react to her offer, she felt a wave of relief as he took charge of the bodies. The quicker they were off her property, the better.

  Hal spoke at last. “I agree. Warrington doesn’t have to know about this.”

  “Thank you.” Had she just offered to marry him? Another reason to put as much distance between her and this place as quickly as possible. She would cut her hair, dye it black and paint her face. Should be easy enough to disappear in one of the distant towns.

  Hal laughed and tucked his straggly hair behind his ears. “You’re as transparent as glass, Tig. I admire your loyalty to whoever it is you’re shielding, but I’d know you anywhere whatever you did to yourself. If you�
�re hiding a runaway, you’re in big shit. You know the rules.”

  “Better than most.” She folded her arms, feeling her temper rising like an animal backed into one corner too many. The more he goaded her, the less he scared her. It was an odd thing.

  He whistled his dog. “Think about what you’re doing, Tig. Spoils belong to the warlord. Nothing’s changed. You have a secret you’re not telling and I won’t stand by and let it destroy you.”

  “You mean you won’t stand by if there’s profit to be made? So much for allegiance to Warrington.” A horrible thought struck her. “You’re not thinking of taking him on? He’s twice your size.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea? What you speak is treason, my dear.” Before she could stop him he’d clamped a fist to the back of her neck and drawn her in for a hard kiss. He always tasted of sour wine and desperation. Of the grease he plastered on his moustache. She should be used to it, but it turned her stomach every time.

  “The warrior who fell from the sky,” he whispered when he finally let her go. “Give him my regards and tell him I want to speak to him.”

  “When I see the man, I will.” She wiped away his kiss with the back of her hand, not caring if he noticed.

  “You reek of him, Tig.” He leaped onto the wagon and took up the reins. “Can smell it from here.”

  “The raiders,” she said nodding at the outlines tied into the tarp. “They tried to rape me. That’s what you’re picking up.”

  Hal sniffed and inclined his head, conceding the point for now. “Let me get rid of these two before word of the raid gets out. You know how it is when there’s a new leader in place. Every man and his dog is eyeing up Warrington’s potential weaknesses right now, wondering which way to throw their cards.”

  “What you speak is treason.” She threw the words back at him. Wished he leave so she could collapse on the ground and gather her scattered senses. So she could find Fabian and tell him the dogs of hell were about to be loosed.

  “Perhaps. Here, a gift for you.” Hal pulled a ring from his smallest finger and tossed it onto the ground before her feet. “Pick it up and wear it, third finger, left hand. You know the drill.”