Lords Of The Dark Fall - Fabian (28 page)

He checked himself again in the mirror. No opulent clothing or fabulous jewels. No heavy belt of office. Pared down in this plain clothing, he had no props to help lend prestige. No costume to hide behind. Only his flesh, his bearing, his voice and intellect. Would they be enough?

Hard to know if they were impressed. None bothered to stand as he stepped over the threshold of the kitchen door. All stared at him directly, insolently appraising him in a way none of his former subjects would have dared. A curt word from Hal and they appeared to remember their place, hastily scrambling to dismount and stand by the wagon awaiting orders.

Three strong men, muscle bulging from their sleeveless leather tunics. Seasoned warriors if the scars were anything to go by. One of them stared so blatantly at Tig that Fabian had to make a fist to stop from flooring the man there and then.

Tig stopped talking to Hal and scurried over. “It’s the daftest idea I’ve ever heard, but he’s converted the wagon so you can lie under the wagon-bed. There’s a peep-hole in the side from which you might get a glimpse of Warrington if he leaves his cabin while you’re there. I’m giving Hal one of my best pots as a tribute. That might lure him out, but I doubt it.”

“Have the men introduce themselves.” This Fabian addressed to Hal. He did not need reminding of the indignity of having to hide like a coward in a dirty wagon in order to glimpse his opponent. “I would know their names.”

“Rancil, Cleverl and Nage.”

At their name, each man stepped forward and beat his chest with a fist. That was more like it, although Fabian already knew respect would be hard earned and not automatically conferred. Hardened warriors, undoubtedly and far below the quality of man he would usually have at his back, but they were here and ready to offer loyalty. His present status demanded that he offer something back.

He nodded. “They are good men. Now show me the wagon.”

A tight fit. So much that for a moment they struggled to fit the wagon bed onto the newly-adjusted side-rails. Claustrophobia had never been a problem, yet since the Fall he’d found in himself a nervousness of enclosed spaces. It took a moment of controlled breathing to steady the panic of being locked in a living coffin. If he turned his head carefully he could see the loose wad of cloth covering the hole where a knot in the wood had been pushed out. His last glimpse of the outside world had been of Tig’s anxious face watching them lower the false floor over him.

From then on, Fabian had only the movement of the cart and his ears with which to orientate himself. The fit in his dark space was so tight he hardly moved when the cart jolted along the pot-holed track. At one point he imagined hearing Hal make a lewd suggestion to Tig. Her laugh in return. Then he heard only the rumble of the cart-wheels and the intermittent crack of Hal’s whip, his sharp whistle when the horses veered off track.

How foolish he would look if discovered. Alarmingly, the bouncing rhythm of the cart made him want to close his eyes and doze. He snapped them open and kept himself awake by reciting the Talimad, one of the longest prayers in the sacred book. Could his gods hear him from so far away? He thought not since none had deigned to magically appear and whisk him home in answer to his prayers.

It must have been a good hour before the wagon stopped for longer than a few moments, perhaps two. More voices now, shouting, shrill. Dogs barking, a baby crying. If Tig was still on the wagon he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. Please let her have dismounted at a safe distance as promised. Carefully, he eased the wadded cloth away from the hole and let his eyes adjust to the small shaft of daylight shining through.

A vaguely familiar scene. The limited view afforded him a vista of several crude wooden-sided cabins, a patch of tilled earth fronting each. A thin stream of smoke spiralled from the chimney of the nearest. A child ran by, for a moment obscuring his view before shrieking and running off. Then he heard the thump of feet on earth, each of the three men jumping down in turn. Someone called Hal’s name. Greetings were exchanged.

No sign of anyone resembling Warrington and thankfully no sound of Tig’s voice. The wagon lurched again, moving forward through the camp. More cabins, a group of women watching the wagon’s progress with interest. One smiled and asked after Sunas. A well-banked fire crackled and blazed on an open patch of land.

Hal pulled the wagon to a halt outside another, much larger cabin. The leather-clad guard raised a hand in salute and beckoned him forward. Hal jumped down, crossed the short distance to the cabin and disappeared inside.

Frustrated by his limited view, Fabian could only wait for him to finish his business and return. And hope that Warrington would deign to leave his compound when Hal left. A surprise attack was out of the question. Another guard sauntered by, a rifle or similar weapon hanging from his shoulder. Casual in stance, the guards missed nothing. Each wore a bandana wrapped about their foreheads. One of the guards was heavily tattooed.

Fabian noted it all, slowly building a picture of the warlord’s base camp. This would be his hub, where he planned his operations, discussed strategy and divided up territories. Despite the small size and shabby dwellings Fabian recognised the air of efficiency and tight control. Every male that came into view appeared to be armed, mostly with rifle-like weapons. Some with long barrels, others the size of a large man’s hand. The guards laughed at some private joke before snapping to attention. Fabian screwed up his eyes and then opened them again to refocus.

A tall, wide man came fleetingly into his sights. He said something to the guard and then ducked back into the cabin, bending his head lest he bang it on the lintel. Both guards slipped the weapons from their shoulders and pulled back the bolts.

A few moments later, the same man strode from the cabin, this time followed by Hal and someone even Fabian hesitated to call a man. A square, pitted face, the forehead marred by a deep, white scar. Black, waist-length hair separated into three hanks and plaited through with some ribbon-like material. Taller than the others by at least two heads, the man’s brawny shoulders and arms strained against the leather body-armour. He too had the small rifle stored in a pouch hanging from his belt. On his back he carried a double-sword holder, which as far as Fabian could see, was empty.

If size were the only consideration then Fabian felt confident of victory. What gave him pause was the man’s demeanour. Every move marked him as a leader, a winner. He didn’t walk, he powered his way through the small crowd gathered round the cabin. Had they not scrabbled to move aside he would have stomped right over them. All except for the small boy who obviously didn’t realise that greatness walked among them. Then the man stooped and ruffled the delighted child’s hair to cheers from the throng.

The man moved from his sight along with Hal and his companion. Fabian heard them discussing Hal’s new horse with Hal diplomatically offering to gift it to the new warlord. An offer that was duly refused.

Fabian took in three deep breaths and let them out slowly. He should have removed his jacket. The airless compartment was stifling him. Hal had come to camp on the pretext of collecting a few supplies so he must endure his wooden coffin for a while longer. The man he presumed to be Warrington swept back into the house, guards at his side, women pushing forward to kiss his hand. The door slammed closed and after a moment Hal whistled the horse to move forward.

At least now the name had a face. An ugly, ruthless face that matched exactly the picture in Fabian’s mind. Tig had described Warrington to perfection.

Fabian decided to meditate on the journey home, mainly to quell the discomfort of the claustrophobia and also to start the process of preparing himself mentally for the ordeal ahead. The longer he lived as a mortal the more he realised what frail vessels these human bodies were. A man could die within minutes from blood-loss or lack of air. He’d seen men die even quicker from an arrow to the heart, a swift slash of a sword to the back of the neck.

Fighting for your life added impetus, but the very thought also added unwelcome fear to the mix. Fear which could well become disabling if he let it get the better of him.

Death itself he did not fear. What scared him was the thought of leaving this life before achieving all the things he wanted to do. Along with the larger goals of returning home and revenge, of regaining a position of power, each day added new, smaller objectives to his list of things worth living for. A mortal could not afford to leave things unsaid or undone for fear their lives would be snuffed out before they had the chance to act.

He squeezed his hands into fists. Wished he could move his arms to wipe away the beaded sweat on his brow. How far were they from the camp? He had no way of knowing if they’d travelled far enough to be unobserved. Or whether Warrington had sent a rider to escort them from the camp, or even follow at a safe distance to make sure everything was as it seemed.

He was nowhere near prepared for this fight. The disappointment of knowing twisted Fabian’s gut and caused his heart to clench in despair. Nowhere near ready because he was not yet ready to die. Too many things to do, too many things to say. Only when he’d put his mortal affairs in order could he step into the ring with Warrington and give it his all.

Grimly, he recited the mantra of the warrior’s path. The song his soldiers sang before battle. To meet the Cariath without flinching, with sword in hand was every warrior’s prayer. He’d watched them kiss their wives and children goodbye, each kiss given as if it were the last. Heard their fervent declarations of love.

Surely they must be far enough away that he could be set free from this wooden prison?

Calm down
. One glimpse of Warrington’s ugly face had reduced him to this gibbering wreck? Lie still, stay calm and think carefully about this urgent need that had suddenly beset him to tell Tig he loved her. Those words had power. More than they both knew. They would bind people together more tightly than the strongest rope, the most potent spell.

The moment of panic receded as he regained control of his body and mind. The cart rolled along the track, taking them back to Tig and the relative safety of the farm. There she’d showed him how to live this human life. And there she would teach him how to face death with honour as he’d been prepared to do on that very first day of his human existence. Then, he had not flinched as he imagined the Cariath riding towards him. But something had changed. That feeling had left him and he must find it again.

Perhaps the very definition of fighting for one’s life was a man who was fully prepared to die? Death let you know you were alive. 

* * * *

He’d gone straight to the bathing room. A little breathless, red in the face from the heat. No reaction, no word on what he’d seen or on what he intended to do next.

“Leave him.” Hal put a warning hand on her arm when she made to follow. “Let him process it all. I’m bringing over some more suitable garments later in the week. He can’t fight in your father’s old suit, that’s for sure.”

“Did he see him?” Tig couldn’t help bristling at Hal’s proprietary stance. Anyone would think he’d been the one to find Fabian in the desert, drag him home, heal him and give him the will to live. “Did the visit serve its purpose?”

“And some, I reckon, judging by his response. We’re both hot and dusty. How about a drink?”

“Pump’s over there,” she said tilting her chin at the pump that served the horse trough. The hell she was inviting him in. Fabian had returned in a foul mood, which only meant one thing. And now Hal was strutting around as if he owned the man.

They were all on edge. The two-hour wait in a disused look-out shack hadn’t exactly put her in a good mood, either. By the time the cart reappeared, she’d convinced herself Fabian had decided to make the challenge there and then and was busy slugging it out with Warrington in the heat of the midday sun. Her knees had almost buckled with relief to see the cart rumbling over the winding track in the direction of home.

“Aww, come on. Don’t be like that.”

The back of Hal’s hand pressed against her cheek. She felt the rush of warmth from his fingertips as he attempted to read her and pushed him off irritably. 

“Don’t do that. You know I don’t like it. Okay, I’ll get you a drink from inside, but water’s all I got.”

Hell, he was following her. Cocky bastard. She never let him into the house.

“I’m key to his survival,” he said when she turned at the door to warn him back. “I think that means you have to be nice to me.”

How had she ever contemplated marrying this man? Close up, she could see the pock marks left by the disease that had almost claimed him as a young man. The pale eyes that always saw too much. The mouth that kissed as if he owned her. For years she’d drawn the line at this door. Now she could do nothing to stop him invading her sanctuary. All she could do was shrug and wave him in and hope he didn’t see how much she cared.

Of course he did. Very little got past Hal.

“There,” she said handing him a mug of water. His gaze took in the vial of stimulants, still lying on the kitchen table.

“Is he taking them?” Hal accepted the water. Drained it in one gulp and placed the mug onto the table. “Guessing he isn’t since the man’s too proud for his own good. Well, that will change.”

“He doesn’t need them.” She glanced from the window, willing Fabian to come rescue her. A vain hope since the water would take a good hour to heat and Fabian hadn’t exactly looked in the mood for company.

“He doesn’t take them, he dies. Plain and simple. Rumour has it someone stabbed Warrington in the arm last week. Apparently he laughed, right before twisting the man’s head right off his neck. You want that to happen to
him
?”

Folding her arms, she faced Hal across the table. “So we all know Warrington is a vicious bastard. What’s new?”

“What’s new is that someone you love is about to take him on. And if we don’t get him into shape, and soon, he’ll be just one more failed warrior sleeping on cemetery hill. Think about that when you tilt that nose of yours and think you’re too good for me.”