Lords Of The Dark Fall - Fabian (23 page)

For reducing him to this, their descendants would cry tears of blood.

* * * *

It wasn’t only the skies that promised thunder. With the gathering clouds at his back, Fabian stomped into the yard, uncaring that he might be seen, dumped the carcass at her feet and glowered.

“Prepare and cook it. I’m taking a bath.”

“You prepare it. Fire pit’s over there. I’m first in that bath.”

Fabian had already turned to stride towards the bath-house. “You can use my water when I’m done. This is a dirty place and I need to be clean.”

“And I don’t?”

He opened the door to the bath-house with so much force it slammed against the wall.

“A peasant does not need to be clean, I do.” He disappeared inside.

She contemplated the empty doorway for a moment before following him inside. Something had soured his mood and badly. He must realise the need to hide for a while longer. And that she couldn’t avoid dealing with Hal. Was that his problem? Had he seen her coming out of the house with Hal?

The valve was already open, feeding hot water from the copper boiler to the metal tub in a thin trickle. He was half out of his shirt and paused only for a heartbeat before ripping it off and throwing it down. Through the steam, she saw muscles bunched so tight they might pop. Strange words, in a tongue she didn’t understand, fell from his lips in angry bursts. His belt hit the wall, the metal buckle clanking off the stone. He kicked off his boots, shoved down his pants and stepped out of them to yank up the metal bucket from under the sink.

“I know you hate all this hiding. It won’t be for much longer. I was in no danger.”

“I’m not angry about that.”

The bucket disappeared into the boiler. He drew it out and threw the water into the tub, landing most of it onto the floor. Repeated the action, each time a little more controlled. No use talking to a man when he was in this kind of mood. Or in arguing about who got the bath first. She’d done enough of that with her brothers and had long ago stopped caring about matters of principle.

“Take your bath then. But tell me what’s wrong. You scare me when you’re like this.”

“I don’t mean to.” Dropping the bucket onto the floor, Fabian closed his eyes for a moment. Opened them. “This hunger and dirt, how do you endure it?”

“We endure it because we have no choice. It’s okay not to like it. You won’t be the first man to get a little cranky with hunger. My father was like a bear with a boil on its butt when dinner was late.”

“I am more than a little cranky, as you put it.”

“I can see that.” She waved an arm. “So take your bath, wash away all that crankiness and I’ll go gut the deer and get it roasting. Does that suit your royal highness?”

He had the grace to sound contrite, even if he didn’t look it. “You shame me, but thank you. I am little company in this mood.”

“No use in me going first, if I’m going to get covered in blood.”

He stepped into the water and sank down, dunking his head so he couldn’t hear her. One way to end a conversation, she supposed. If he’d been half as exalted as he made out, the journey from palace to this would have been one heck of an adjustment. Let him have his strop and when he’d filled his belly maybe he’d open up a little more. A man hell-bent on revenge moved in a straight line, noticing nothing but his goal and she could see him already barrelling down that path. Warrington wasn’t the only danger. If Fabian didn’t look around, he was likely to miss the man, or men who could be his downfall.

He might have at least asked her to join him in the tub.

While he soothed his frustration in the calming heat of the bath, she took hers out on the carcass, slashing and stabbing at it with her gutting knife, imagining that with every stab, another of Fabian’s adversaries fell. When they saw the size of him they’d be queuing to take him on. The bigger and fiercer, the more they flocked to test their strength.

Typically male. If no one stepped in to unite the gangs, society would never get back on its feet. Fabian had mentioned the Imarna, female from what she could gather and by the sound of them, strong enough or wily enough to take out a man of his stature. Sulking about having been bested by women? His ego wouldn’t have taken kindly to that.

She threw the lungs to the dogs and dumped the rest of the organs into an enamel dish. They’d do for casserole tomorrow. She suspected there wouldn’t be much left of the carcass once Fabian got his teeth into it.

Staring at the darkening sky, she dared it to rain. Not tonight, please. Once she’d reduced the wood to charcoal, it would take a few hours to roast the deer for eating. By then it would be dark and she wanted to eat under the stars and make small talk about frivolous things. Forget that Hal would return at sunrise to negotiate terms and then it would all begin.

She still didn’t know the most basic things about Fabian. Like what was his favourite colour? Could he dance? Play a musical instrument? Although gruff and aloof, he had an air of refinement about him and as a high-born son would have been taught the usual social graces.

“Here, let me.”

She hadn’t noticed him leaving the bathing room. His hair hung about his face in damp strands and he wore a brushed cotton shirt, one of her father’s best. The red-checkered pattern suited his tanned skin. The doe-skin pants hugged his thighs almost indecently. He dragged the deer to the fire-pit, rolling it onto the metal grill as if it weighed nothing.

“Go take your bath. I’ll watch the meat.”

She had to laugh at his fierce tone. He would protect that carcass to the death.

“I’ll get some potatoes, first, to bake alongside. Should be some beer left in the barrel. Get started on it, I won’t be long.”

“I should bathe you to atone for my earlier sharpness.”

Her insides clenched at the deliciously wicked visual that popped into her mind. She shook her head. “I’ll put that one in the bank. You need to guard that meat.”

He was gazing at it almost lovingly. Laughing to herself, she crossed the yard to the barn to fetch a handful of potatoes. At the doorway, she stopped, remembering the bodies, expressions frozen in surprise. A vain hope that Hal had returned them to their families. With Fabian in the picture Hal would be forced to dispose of them himself. Wasn’t unusual for men to disappear. Warrington would put out a reward for the deserters, but they’d never be found.

Come on, Tig. Stop being such a wimp.
Dead bodies, empty shells. Who had the time to care? Inside, she used her heel to scrape earth over the lingering blood-stains and found her potatoes. Better quality than usual, another sign of Hal’s rising status. They would taste good.

The wife of a warlord would feast like this at every meal.

Been there, done that. The divorce had been timely. The harem rarely survived a coup.

She threw Fabian the potatoes, one by one and then settled for a quick strip-down wash. Tonight may be her last chance to find out more about this man who, whatever he claimed to be, seemed to be finding his humanity at last. The sight of the hungry man gazing so forlornly at the roasting carcass had touched something deep inside of her. She felt at that moment as if she’d been given a glimpse of his soul.

A soul that would be the saving of him if only he managed to hold on to it.

* * * *

Comfortably sprawled out in the rocker on the porch, head tipped back, Fabian contemplated the break in the clouds and wondered exactly how far he was from home. Had the vortex of the Dark Fall taken him forward or backwards in time? Back on his own world, was he yet to be born? Was this his chance to go back and do it all over again, only this time righting the wrongs he’d visited on the hapless people?

And the distance? The sky here was the same colour as in his home world, but the pinpricks of light that adorned the night sky told a different story. Despite finding a book on Tig’s shelf that described the configuration of the stars in relation to one another, he found nothing familiar. No references to Anxur, no blue nebula in the western sky. This world had a satellite moon. His world was one of the moons that surrounded the greater world of Tessala.

“Gosh, that meat smells good.”

He removed his feet from the porch railing and swung the chair upright. Tig looked very different with her hair bound in a towelling turban instead of hanging in its usual tangles about her face and shoulders. She possessed an almost regal bone-structure, fine and delicate, yet with the required hint of iron for a queen.

If forced to stay, she would be his queen.

“Find anything interesting?” She indicated the astronomy book lying closed on the wooden porch slats. “Not much of a sky tonight, but there’s a good telescope upstairs in the attic if you want me to drag it down. My brother was a keen sky-watcher.”

“Will it make Anxur appear? The great ocean world of Tessala? Will I see the blue nebula streaking across the heavens?”

“Can’t say I’ve heard of any of them. Is Anxur a star?” Tig lowered herself to the step at his feet, head resting on the post.

“One of the three moons of Tessala. And I was lord of it all. You still doubt my story?” And how could he blame her for that? When he’d arrived, he’d been so sure and now it sounded fantastic to his own ears. Like one of the adventure tales he’d read as a child where the mysterious hero appears from nowhere, leaves his mark and then disappears without trace.

“Have to admit I thought you were delusional when you first washed up, but I guess there are things in life we’ll never understand. That we’re not meant to understand.”

“We call that faith.”

“Yes, we do, too. You don’t think maybe you’re suffering from amnesia?”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Some days I wish I was.” Spreading his fingers, he held out his palm. “See the calluses? These hands have held a sword. I refuse to believe my memories are delusion. I have too many of them.”

She was more patient with him than he deserved. Taking his hand, she traced a finger over the hard skin, took the other hand and compared them.

“I favour both sides,” he said when she looked up, puzzled at the symmetrical configuration. “Very useful in a fight.”

“Well, you’ll need all the edge you can get against Warrington.”

He sat back in the chair, trying to visualise his opponent. He would have all the standard attributes of strength, power and charisma. They told him nothing of the man. A man’s fate often lay in his weakness, not his strengths.

“I would observe the man. Can that be arranged?”

“Not without him observing you right back. You’d definitely stand out in a crowd.”

“I wish to be assured of victory. For that I must know him better.”

“And you will. But let’s not talk about him tonight. Tell me more about yourself. Where you come from. You’ve been here all this time and all I really know about you is that you lost everything and want to get home.”

Tig unwound the turban and shook out her hair. Darker when wet, it would dry to the pale hue of summer straw. If there existed a way to return home, he would go naked as he came. The lock of hair she’d gifted him would be lost, but he would never forget the colour, or fine-silk texture. The way it caressed his naked skin.

The meat would not be cooked for at least another hour of the clock. Plenty of time to take her upstairs and feel that hair on his skin one more time.

He squashed the feeling. This quiet intimacy, the two of them sitting on the porch in the gathering dusk, the smell of roasting meat on the air, a tankard of ale and two dogs at his feet was yet another new experience and one he wished to savour. Such moments of peaceful contentment were rare for kings and peasants alike.

“It’s strange to be in a place where I am not legend. What do you wish to know?”

She lifted a strand of her hair, inspected the ends. “So, what’s your favourite colour?”

“That’s an odd question.” He’d worn what was required of the high lord. Cloth coloured with the richest and most expensive of dyes.

“Come on,” she said poking his leg. “Everyone has a favourite colour.”

“I was required to appear in cloth of gold, but I preferred purple. Does that answer your question?”

“And food, you must have a favourite food? And you can’t say meat. Be specific.”

“There was a small bird. The ptargane, so tender you could eat them bones and all. So delicious I made them province of the High Lord.”

“Which means?”

“That only princes could eat them. They were too good for the peasantry.”

“Says who? You were a proper tyrant by the sound of things.”

“I turned tyranny into an art-form.”

No matter how frivolous the conversation, it always came back to this. The burden of his sin would never lift.

“Too serious,” she said holding up her hands. “What was the name of your favourite horse? I’m guessing you had a few.”

“In your tongue it would be something like, Keklafadies. I rode only the purest of bloods, whites and blacks, so swift I was unbeatable in the race.”

Or so he’d thought. Looking back at it now, he knew that even had he crawled at the pace of a babe he would still have been the victor. The thought embarrassed him, a feeling to which he was not at all accustomed.

Had his ego been so large he’d never noticed the sycophants?

“Want to get drunk with me?” Tig leaped to her feet, eyes shining. “Let’s get drunk and dance and sing silly songs. Forget everything just for tonight.”

He didn’t get the chance to refuse. Tig disappeared into the house, returning a few moments later with a bottle of the home-distilled grain spirit and two shot glasses.

“I should keep a clear head. I will need all my wits about me tomorrow.”

“Big guy like you should be able to handle it.” She winked and poured him out a generous shot. “Promise I won’t get you too drunk.”

“It would have taken three, maybe four bottles of that stuff to inebriate me before.” He took the glass, mirrored her salute and tossed it back. Tig coughed and screwed up her face in a manner that should have been comical had she not looked so appealing. She dropped onto the boards beside him, her head coming to rest against his thigh. She let out a deep, appreciative ahh as the alcohol found its way into her veins.