Lords Of The Dark Fall - Fabian

by C A Nicks

  Or the man who stepped from the barn, calling them off with a brusque command. Wiping her face with her sleeve, she gazed up at him. Backlit by moonlight, a dark silhouette, but one she’d know anywhere.

  Her champion. The man who would change the world. And she would do everything in her power to help him. They only had to go do it.

  * * * *

  “Tell me again how the challenge must be presented.”

  They’d spent the night in the barn, snuggled under a blanket in the hay-loft in case of visitors looking for their colleagues. Both of them had missed dinner and now, as the first light of dawn lit the barn window, Tig's stomach grumbled in protest.

  “The standard-bearer must ride in under flag of truce. There’s a bit of a ritual. Standard-bearer throws down your token, Warrington picks it up and then the challenger comes forward. A time and a place will be set and then you fight.”

  Fabian listened intently, all the while stroking her arm. Too preoccupied to make use of the early-morning erection prodding her thigh. Needed to keep alert, he’d said and gone no further than a slow wake-up kiss. She understood the need to listen and watch, but it was frustrating all the same.

  “Warrington will abide by these rules?”

  “Carson died during an argument, apparently, but it will be hard for Warrington to ignore a formal challenge without looking like a coward. I think he’ll pick it up. His mage has probably already told him a challenge is imminent.”

  “The mage is psychic?”

  “I imagine so. Don’t send him anything. Let him think it’s Janx he’s picked up on. I want to see Warrington’s face when you reveal yourself.”

  The stroking stopped. “I would prefer you stayed away.”

  “I know.” But how could she? “I want to bear witness. I’ll stay low, I promise.”

  He conceded the point without argument. “Janx and his followers, where are they assembling?”

  “Old Ma Peek’s place. Hal’s gone out to find his men. Want them with you?”

  “Hal and his men, yes. The others are to wait for my command. If I lose, Warrington will kill everyone associated with me.”

  “Well, he’ll have to catch us first. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

  “The strong will always dominate the weak. It is the way of things.”

  Tig threw off the blanket, shivering a little in the early morning air. Unsurprised at the lack of visitors in the night. When scouts failed to return you braced for attack. Warrington would be waiting for them.

  “It doesn’t have to be. Not any more.” She sat for a moment, wondering if she had the energy to face this. Warrington as reigning warlord held choice of weapons. An expert with the knife, the duel would be quick, brutal and bloody. No mercy asked for or given. Her stomach heaved. Had it not been for Sunas, she might have begged Fabian to abandon it all and leave with her. Start a new life and forget about power and trying to make things better.

  “Change will not happen so quickly even if I win.”

  “Don’t say it like that.” She rose to her knees, picking the straw from her shirt. Holding back the tears he didn’t need to see. A rustle behind her and then the warm strength of his body surrounded her.

  “I intend to win,” he whispered. “You promised me a child. I wish very much to see it.”

  “You will.”

  “Then I have much to fight for.”

  “You do. Don’t let’s get sappy, I couldn’t bear it.”

  A deep chuckle, his lips against her neck. “Sappy? You still talk gibberish, woman, but I love you for it. You taught me to feel. You must bear it. Now feed me. I will need my energy.”

  “Yes, my lord.” A few tears fell despite her best efforts. More as a tribute to his bravery than a sign of weakness, she decided. Nothing wrong with those kind of tears. Watching him slide down the ladder, she gathered herself up and remembered why they did this. Her small wants paled to nothing beside the grander plan.

  Hens to release, dogs to feed, Cafino to turn out into the corral. Pottery to fashion ready for sale. This could be the last day of that life. Collecting the eggs into a bowl, she surveyed her brood of hens, the proud cockerel who would have won prizes at the territory fair, if such things still existed. They’d have to take their chances like everyone else. If a wolf or a fox got them, well she’d done her best.

  “The house is secure. When will Hal arrive?”

  Fabian had donned his leather vest. Sluiced his thick hair and slicked it back from his face to show off his high cheek-bones, the dark flair of his eyebrows. His race were a beautiful people. Please don’t let Warrington mark him too badly. Few left a knife fight without scars.

  “Soon as he makes contact with his men. You cook. I’ll grab an old bed-sheet and make us a flag. He’ll ride into camp with it, but he won’t ride out. Warrington will most-likely take him hostage the moment he shows.”

  “What grip does Warrington favour? Have you seen him fight?”

  “Overhand, what they call Catchara. He’s fast, always moving. Hand to hand, too. Watch out for either hand, he can change in a heart-beat.”

  “Does he favour a method? I’m versed in all of the major techniques.”

  “His method is to kill people. His trademark is the one, two, three. In, kill, out. He’s not a complicated man.”

  “I will despatch him before he raises his knife. Are you hungry?” Fabian slapped the skillet on the stove and began to diligently crack the eggs.

  She shook her head. Hunger had been replaced by a vague nausea gnawing at her insides. Swallowing it down, she closed her eyes and waited for the world to right itself.

  Come on, girl. You can handle fear better than this.

  “I’ll go get that sheet.”

  “And then you will eat something. It will make you feel better.”

  Yesterday she’d eaten hardly a bite. Maybe that’s all it was. “Yes,” she agreed. “It will probably help.”

  Fabian dropped to one knee to open the stove door. “I need to fetch wood. Why are you smiling?”

  “Am I?” She touched her mouth. “Must be the sight of you cooking. I admit it’s something I thought I’d never see. When you first arrived you were so…”

  “Pompous?”

  “And some. You’ve changed so much.”

  He stood, wiping ash from his hands. “The man I was is lost to me.”

  “You still want him back?”

  “That is natural, is it not?” Pulling back the curtain, he checked out the yard. “It’s clear. I’ll fetch the wood.”

  Upstairs, she rooted through the linen cupboard for an old sheet. Couldn’t blame him for wanting his old life back or for his reluctance to take up her cause. What reason did he have to care about her people? So he wanted a child with her. He wouldn’t be the first to ask. If the worst happened, she could live without him. She could.

  Stop it. She wiped away another stray tear, sniffing back the rest. If Fabian died today, or he decided to take a chance on returning home, she would carry on without him. And that’s what scared her the most. She wouldn’t die of grief. She’d never be able to end her own life. She’d lock him away in her heart, pick herself up and battle on. Alone.

  No, not alone. Something they had to do before Hal arrived to take him away. Tig left the room and flew down the stairs, sheet under her arm. At the foot of the stairs she paused, heart hammering, listening for the sound of footsteps on the decking. Fabian stepped into the kitchen, arms laden with logs, eyes locking with hers. For a long moment, they stared at each other. Without a word, he moved to the stove and shoved the logs inside. Struck a match and lit the kindling. Blew on it until it caught. And all the while her heart threatened to smash right through her chest.

  Deliberately, he crossed the kitchen to turn one of the keys in the lock. And then the room tipped and she was in his arms, kissing him without restraint as he carried her up the stairs, dropped her onto the bed and fell on top of her, crushing the breath fro
m her lungs. Murmuring words of love and lust in her tongue and his.

  End of the world sex. What better time than now to give him what he wanted? Skin to burning skin. Too intense, too bruising, leaving her weak and drained beneath him. She could hardly lift a limb when he finished moving. If he felt the same, they were in deep trouble.

  He rolled from her with a satisfied groan, looking far too relaxed for a man facing death. A hint of a smile, a tentative hand gentle on her belly. She covered it with her own.

  “You can’t die,” she whispered. “We need you.”

  “I’ll be here.” A quick glance at the clock on the bedroom mantle. A deep exhalation of breath. He’d been so determined to challenge Warrington and now she sensed a resignation, a feeling that whatever had changed, he still had to keep right on walking until the end.

  God-willing, if she faced a future without him, she wouldn’t be alone. After too short a time, he rose from the bed, urging her down when she tried to join him.

  “Stay still,” he said. “Keep my seed inside of you for as long as you can.”

  He left so abruptly, she had no time to reply or ask if they’d done the right thing. Was this selfish of her, or would it give him the edge he needed to win the fight?

  Tonight she would find out.

  Chapter 21

  Fabian moved resolutely through the silent crowd ignoring the indignant glances as he shoved his way past. Few people paid him heed. All eyes were on Hal and his escort of guards, the flag of truce limp on its pole, Fabian’s token in his hand.

  A thin drizzle turned the world grey, narrowing it down to this camp, this market square and this small patch of dirt where today a man would die. Someone turned and pointed. A whisper became a collective murmur.

  “Is he the one?”

  “No chance, I’m betting on Warrington.”

  Would Hal hold his nerve? With his wife held captive, he had every incentive. One of the guards slapped Hal on the back, making him stumble. Another put his face close and let out a guttural yell. Kudos to Hal for refusing to be spooked. He stood his ground, waiting for Warrington to show. No sign of the man yet, only his mage pushing over an old woman in his effort to get through the throng. He ordered the guards back with a wave of his hand and then folded his arms.

  Fabian lowered his hood. A stout woman gasped and covered her mouth. He lifted a finger, red with the blood of the single gate-guard, to silence her. She nodded her assent, terrified eyes never leaving him. In the market square, Hal threw down the token.

  At first, the mage only tossed back his head and laughed. A theatrical gesture quickly taken up by the crowd, laughing nervously along as expected. Fabian bristled at their flippancy. More reason to show them all who they were dealing with. Eventually, the mage bent to retrieve the purple-silk square, which had once belonged to Tig’s mother and then held it aloft as a gesture of acceptance. An excited buzz rolled through the crowd.

  “So,” the mage boomed. “Which of you fools wants to die today? Come forward, your overlord will be happy to oblige.”

  Fabian finally broke through the crowd to stand at the edge of a market square, which would not have been out of place on his world. Sodden bolts of cloth lay piled on a trestle, a few loaves remained from the batch of morning bread. Some had abandoned their stalls to stand and gawk, others remained to protect their wares from those who would take advantage of the distraction.

  The mage turned slowly and deliberately, eyeing each person who fell into his line of sight. Tall and wide, his face covered in tattooed colours that swirled and blended, hair stiffened into peaks that stood up from his head the rest hanging down his back, he presented a terrifying figure.

  Which of course, was the whole point. Fabian waited to be noticed.

  The man took an insultingly long time to sweep his gaze from Fabian’s head to his feet. He then turned to Hal, shoulders raised, an enquiring look on his face, as if to say he hadn’t seen anyone worthy of a challenge and why was he wasting their time?

  “I present Fabian Lucimanticus who today offers challenge. Look on him and tremble.”

  In his world they would have done just that. Here, now the challenger was revealed and named, the crowd simply stared at him, appraising his worth while taking care not to show emotion that might mark them as one of his followers. They may wish for a saviour, but none would show their hand until the victor had been declared.

  “Is this all?” The mage ambled across the square, palms raised, addressing the crowd like a professional. “I’m embarrassed to fetch my lord to fight with this. Come on, there must be someone else hiding there? Someone who looks as if he might last more than a couple of seconds.”

  Fabian knew the drill. Put personal feeling aside, absorb the jibes and definitely do not scan the crowd for Tig. She’d be there somewhere. He could only hope she’d stay hidden as promised. Or better still keep away.

  He lifted his chin. “Fetch your master. Tell him to prepare for death.”

  “Why?” The mage lunged at him, teeth bared. “To join us you need only ask. Make application, my master is most generous to those loyal to him.” At this he turned a pointed look on Hal. “As he is ruthless to those who defy him.”

  “Give me back my wife, you bastard. Where is she?”

  Hal spoke like a man with nothing to lose. Formalities had ended, it seemed.

  “You want another piece of her? I can arrange that.”

  A voice called from the crowd. “Get on with it!” It was quickly followed by another.

  “Fight, fight, fight.”

  Soon the throng were baying for blood, their shouts echoing around the market square. Fabian threw down his hood and set about calmly removing his leather vest and shirt. Buoyed by the energy of the crowd, he flexed his arms, pumping his muscles, sending the blood coursing through his veins. It felt good to be back at some semblance of his fighting strength. What need of stimulants with a body like his? He was proud to fight unaided.

  That question was answered the moment he lifted his eyes to see why the baying had suddenly died away to be replaced by an awed hush. So here he was. The man who stood between him and his goals. Shorter by a head, a little wider maybe, Warrington carried the strength of a hard man who’d fought his way to the top and meant to stay there. His braid he’d wound about his head and secured with a band. He’d already divested his tunic showing off a deep chest shaded by dark hair, the bunched muscles of his shoulders, a corded neck that resembled the trunk of a middy-oak. But it was his face that caught and held Fabian’s attention.

  Carved as if from a rock, devoid of emotion and completely unreadable. Fabian could not tell if the man was angry, scared or just plain bored by the challenge.

  “You,” he said sliding a serrated-edged knife from the sheath at his back. “Come forward.”

  Fabian unsheathed his own knife and held his ground. He would not play by Warrington’s tactics. Warrington raised his knife, point downwards, the handle clutched in his fist. A blur of movement as he flicked his wrist and rolled his forearms one over the other. Making the weapon virtually disappear – Fabian had seen that move many times. Valuable information as he now knew what method Warrington favoured. The most likely blows would come at the eyes, the side of the neck, the flank of his rib-cage and into the heart.

  No wrist guards. He didn’t have any and Warrington was now still and being divested of his by the mage. The hand holding the knife remained the primary target. Disable the opponent’s ability to hold his weapon and then finish. Warrington leaned towards the mage, speaking too quietly to be heard.

  “The only rule is that from now on there are no rules.” With his stick, the mage drew a line in the dirt. “The game is on. It ends when one of you is dead. Begin.”

  The word had hardly died in his throat before a white hot pain, like that of an iron brand, seared Fabian’s biceps. While he’d been listening, Warrington had been moving. Falling back, the warlord’s killing blow missed him by a hair,
glancing off a rib with a sickening grate.

  The man was faster than blue lightning. Relentless, too. The knife flew to his other hand. Sliced through the air towards the vulnerable veins in Fabian’s neck. Fabian swooped, kicked out, gaining purchase on Warrington’s stomach. The momentum also pushed him back causing his feet to lose grip on the slushy ground. He tumbled onto his backside to the raucous laughter of the crowd, rolled and flipped himself upright.

  For a split second he thought he saw Tig’s face. In that moment of distraction, Warrington drove home, burying the tip of his knife just below his ribs. A battle-surge gave him the strength to move before it drove home into what organ lay beneath. Failing a clean kill, Warrington needed only administer enough serious cuts to weaken and then bleed him out.

  And he had yet to land a blow.

  The killing machine charged forward, blade flying from hand to hand. Fabian had no idea from which side the blow would come. He managed to deflect the blade with his own in a skid of metal on metal. The momentum threw them together, both blades finding purchase in flesh. Another wound, this time to his stomach. A quick glance and relief to see that his intestines were still where they belonged. Warrington bled freely from a deep gash to his chest.

  Fabian took a few steps back, the distance giving him time to deal with the intensity of the pain. Warrington seemed to be toying with him, interested only in wounding rather than an all out assault. They eyed each other warily.

  Fighting for one’s life. Was this it? Instead of conviction, Fabian felt only confusion. The battle surge made his limbs tremble, making it hard to grip the knife. Part of his mind was still on Tig and everything he had to lose should he fall in this fight. He could still see the crowd.

  Too fast, everything was happening too fast to process.

  Warrington stood impassively by, impossibly calm, waiting for his next move. Fabian swallowed down his heart. If he didn’t get a grip, he was a dead man. He’d come here to fight for Tig, for the chance to return home. For that dream of revenge and to get back what he’d lost. None of that would happen if he didn’t kill Warrington. Right now nothing else mattered.