Lords Of The Dark Fall - Fabian (2 page)

“Son of a rabid dog!” The woman’s bunched fist slammed into his nose. She cried out in pain and went for his eyes. Her own were wide and furious. Dark as the storm raging all around them. A startling contrast to the paleness of the hair wrapped and tangled about her face.

He deflected the second blow, pushing her easily into the ground. Even in his injured state, she barely challenged him. In his peripheral vision, he spotted the crossbow bolt protruding from the muscle in his forearm, a trickle of blood pouring from the wound, and he remembered the many times he’d been in this position. A woman beneath him, pinned by his full weight. With or without her consent, he would invariably slake his lust and then walk away without a backward glance.

She might have given me water in return for nothing but my name
.

An unfamiliar twinge of conscience made him ease his bulk from the woman’s wildly thrashing body so she could breathe. She took in a long gasp of air and then renewed her attempts to escape him by kneeing him in the balls. Her feeble struggles only excited him more. In a well-practiced manoeuvre, he arched away from her, hard as an iron rod now. This close, he caught the stench of the beast she’d been riding, overlaid with a scent he recognised as fundamentally hers. Light and ethereal, like the first blushing flowers of spring.

He wanted to press his face into her neck and taste her skin.
She
wanted to kill him, judging by the murderous look in her eyes. Prudently, he slid the short sword from its scabbard and tossed it across the sands.

“I’ll pay,” she ground out between panting breaths. “Don’t take my virtue. Please don’t take my virtue.”

“I don’t want your virtue,” he lied. “I need your beast and your weapons. And directions to the nearest settlement. I must have the services of a mage, urgently.”

“Not Cafino, please. He’s all I have.”

“That is of no concern to me. Tell me, do mages exist in this wretched world?” He pressed down to lever himself from her, momentarily, grinding her knuckles into the gritty sand. Making her cry out.

“Yes, but you can’t go naked. They’ll shoot you on sight.”

Grimly, he pulled the crossbow bolt from his flesh. A gush of bright blood splashed onto his thigh. “Then I need clothing. Where do you live?”

“Farm. Half a day’s ride from here.”

“Which direction?”

“How will you ride? You’re injured.”

She had no need to remind him of that. He unfolded abused muscles to stand at his full height and breathed in the energy of the storm as deeply as his cracked ribs would allow. A small flicker of residual magic lingered in the imprints of the bracelets he’d worn since his childhood initiation. When he returned to Anxur, the Imarna would die a thousand painful deaths for the insult they had heaped upon him and his family.

The familiar tingle of age-old magic worked its way into every cell, every muscle and bone. Not enough to heal him completely, but sufficient to get him on the beast and perhaps to a settlement. Or this woman’s farm, where he could steal some clothing. Nakedness was obviously an issue on this world.

The woman rolled, suddenly, stretching out a desperate arm towards the crossbow. Casually, he kicked it out of her reach and wondered what he could use to bind her. Another flash of lightning hit the ground, dangerously close. The woman lay at his feet, gazing up at him with anguished eyes. Waiting for him to kill her? He already knew she wouldn’t relinquish her life without a fight.

“Bastard,” she said on a half sob. “Kill me then, you cowardly excuse for a man. Without Cafino I’ll starve. At least spare me that.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said, surprised at the sincerity in his tone. Deftly, he pulled away the blanket from beneath the saddle and wrapped it around his hips in a rudimentary loincloth, a small hiss of pain his only concession to the break in his arm. Years of discipline had taught him that pain dwelled primarily in the mind. It could be controlled, even eliminated when he was at full strength.

“If you leave me here, you’ll kill me just the same. How long do you think I’ll last without weapons, water and food? I can show you the way. Find you clothes…” 

Desperation made odd bedfellows of people. He’d noticed that more than once in his colourful life. An Anxur warrior, who no longer felt the urge to kill? No woman had been safe from his charm or his strength, yet this enigmatic creature lay at his feet, his for the taking, and still his baser urges remained firmly within his control.

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 this 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.