Lords Of The Dark Fall - Fabian (6 page)

“Enough,” he said. “From now on, there will be nothing but the truth between us.” He tipped his head towards the door. “Are they coming for me?”

“No.”

His shoulders sagged. “It did not cross your mind that I was a valuable commodity?”

“Yes. It crossed my mind. Crossed it, and walked right on out the other side.”

Fabian stepped closer and paused to roll back the shirt-sleeve over the splint.

“Have you truly changed your mind, now you know what is on mine?”

Cringing in his shadow, she could well imagine the terror of those he’d conquered. He respected courage, but he wouldn’t let it stand in the way of his goals.

“Yes,” she said, with no idea what she was about to unleash. “I want to save you pain. But if all you want to do is go back to your old life, count me out. Go. I won’t stop you. I won’t help you, either.”

He lifted a strand of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers. “You have courage, little one. Few would dare to talk to me as you do.”

“Have you any idea what a cliché that sounds?”
Stop it,
she thought. His hand moved to her face, one finger tracing the line of her nose. He rubbed her lips with his thumb. Cupped her chin. Moved down to place a flat palm over her heart.

“Tyrants always talk in cliché. It’s expected.” He listened for a moment to the beating of her heart. “You fear me, and yet you stand your ground.”

“And you’re in pain, but you won’t admit it.”

His hand slid to her breast, a sure, possessive move. Tig fought for a single, rational thought and found her mind curiously blank. There was only the sensation of his fingers tightening and releasing. The softening and melting of her spine. A slight wobble in her knees.

And a ravenous hunger deep inside.

Not real,
she thought, frantically latching onto something, at last.
Loneliness, nothing more. That’s why I’m standing here like some moonstruck idiot caught in the flare of a burning torch.

“Stop distracting me.” Even as she said it, she pushed against his searching fingers.

In response, Fabian leaned close enough for her to taste his breath. To feel his soft, wet lips tracing the shell of her ear.

“Wash,” he whispered. “I like my women clean.”

Before she could reply, he turned, slid back the bolt and strode from the room.

Tig stared after him, brain scrambling to catch up. The imprint of his large hand lingering on her breast.

“I was going to wash anyway,” she shouted after him. “I’m not doing it for you.”

Then why was she searching frantically through the wooden supplies-cabinet for the rose-scented soap? Wishing she hadn’t used up the last of the chamomile rinse that made her hair shine like the summer sun on gold leaf?

She unbuttoned her shirt and threw it aside. Pulled the plug from the bath to let the water gush out into the drain.

What kind of message would she give when she walked into that kitchen, scrubbed and clean?

With a deep breath, she gathered her scattered senses.
Arrogant bastard. Nothing more than bribery.
One night of passion and she’d do exactly what he asked? He didn’t really expect her to comply?

No, he doesn’t
.
He’s expecting me to barrel through that kitchen door all righteous indignation and guns blazing.

She squinted into the copper boiler and then drew the last bucketful of hot water. Stripped down to stand naked in the tub.

Toe-curling sex and grisly death. Two things you could count on with men like Fabian. She paused and then continued soaping her arm. She wouldn’t contribute to the latter, but she’d be a fool to refuse the first part. In this world, you took your comforts where you could. She lingered over her breast, retracing the path of his hand.

Horny? What did she expect? She’d been staring at a naked man for the best part of the last twenty-four hours. Fabian’s body would tempt Saint Jalana herself.

Sniffing at the shampoo, she wondered if he liked roses.

* * * *

The dough had risen and still no Tig. He, who had only to incline his head to cause a riot of women fighting for his bed.

Fabian lowered himself carefully into the armchair. Putting up a front of indifference to the pain used energy he should be channelling into healing this poor mortal body. Did it matter if Tig saw him hurting?

He tipped back his head. The shirt smelled musty, the cotton soft with age against his skin. A thousand years of sleep to catch up on. All those missed dreams.

The seers had warned him, but he would not listen. His arrogant disregard had brought down a whole dynasty. Fabian frowned. In his mind, his brother’s pride as he’d stepped up to the ledge, turned to scorn.

No
. Marcellus at least was true to the end. Victory had been so close. He gripped the arm of the chair with his good hand and smelled roses.

“You were dreaming.”

Petals against his skin. He watched the gossamer strands drift across his face.
Not petals, spun gold.
Showering his arms and chest. Enveloping him. A hand pulled the strands aside. Tig’s face appeared, anxious and hovering close. Fabian glanced around, remembering.

“Oh,” he said, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “It’s you.”

“Yes. Fabian. Only me. You were talking in your sleep. Dreaming. You called for Marcellus.”

“My true-brother,” he said distracted by the vision standing before him. “I had many half-brothers, but Marcellus and I shared the same mother.” He blinked. “It is you. You clean up well.”

Tig winked at him. “Come breakfast with me. Can you eat new bread?”

“I have no problem with it.” The big problem was getting out of the chair. In his sleep, his joints had stiffened and locked in place. Tig gave him a sympathetic smile as he hobbled to take his place at the table. She slapped down a mug of something hot and steaming and pushed a wooden board containing the new bread towards him.

“There’s honey in the crock. Help yourself.”

Being clean certainly seemed to have improved Tig’s spirits. Bare-foot and dressed in a green fitted gown that reached to her knees, her hair loose, like a golden cloak, she was certainly very easy on the eye. Alluring, even. 

“Stiff?” She slid the honey-crock to him. “Can get like that the day after.”

“A little.” Still groggy and half-aroused from sleep, he wasn’t quite sure to what she was referring. He watched her spread honey on the bread. Sip from her mug. Wipe crumbs from her lip with her thumb. Beautiful women measured each and every move. They knew their worth, and invariably extracted it, with interest. Women like Tig were a rare find. More honest and generous. He remembered the conversation they’d had in the bath-house.

“So you refuse to help me return home?”

She looked a little crest-fallen. As if she’d been expecting one conversation, but was getting another.

“The gown becomes you,” he said back-tracking dutifully. “Tig, I need your help to navigate this world. I must return to my own.”

“Really. You really like it?”

“I do,” he said, noticing the way her eyes sparkled with mischief. She wasn’t so different from other women. They all played one game or another. “It shows off what few curves you have, admirably. Now, back to helping me leave here.”

Tig chewed her bread, looking extraordinarily pleased with herself. “I told you, already. If you’re going back to create murder and mayhem, then you do it alone. Where do you come from, really? What’s all this
my world
, business?”

She had the brains of a court jester. A shrewd mind hidden behind a façade of flippancy and deceptively simple words. He’d promised her the truth.

“I’m from another dimension. A world far from this one in time and in space.” He braced himself for laughter, or a witty come-back. Incredulity, even. Tig simply scrutinised him with half-closed eyes while she sipped her tea.

“When I lived in my husband’s camp, I often talked with his mage. He told me many strange stories. Not sure how much was truth and how much exaggeration. Most mages are frauds, anyway. All talk and mumbo jumbo that’s meant to impress but doesn’t do squat but make you poorer. Fabian, I think you maybe hit your head harder than you realised.”

“There was a treacherous betrayal. I was made to take the Dark Fall.”

“The Dark Fall?”

“An abyss that cycles through time and dimensions. A kind of purgatory where men confront their sins. For my sins, I ended up here.”

“Then you must have been bad.”

Tig continued eating and then, after a moment of thought, she extended a hand and covered his, offering the pity he’d begged for so desperately, back in the desert.

“I was. Very bad, as you so eloquently put it. A thousand of our years bad.”

“So, you just fell out of the sky after a thousand years in purgatory, and now you want to go home so you can slaughter everyone who did you wrong? Have I missed anything?”

“That sums it up, yes.”

She turned his hand over to study the lines of his palm. Her gaze lifted to his face. Reaching out, she stroked his stubbled chin. “You’ve a day, maybe two day’s growth of beard. Unless your attackers shaved you before leaving you to die, you weren’t out there long.”

“During the Fall, I felt only pain and fear. Other things became irrelevant.” He caught her gaze, daring her to mock his words

“Fabian. You said you would speak only the truth from now on.”

“My word is sacred.”

“I know.” Tig returned to her tea. “That’s what’s scaring me. Eat more. You need the strength.”

“I need to go home. With or without your help. Lend me a weapon and tell me where the nearest township is. The Frey, are they creature, or man?”

“They’re carrion birds that only feast on dead flesh, which you will be within two days of leaving here. That, or in the slave market, although, with that tattoo, it will probably be a public execution. It’s as good as the mark of Crolos to some people. And even if you did get to the township alive, you wouldn’t find a mage clever enough to magic you back through your black hole.” Tig pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. She tapped the side of her head. “Is this getting through to you? If you want to be dead by tomorrow, then walk out that door right now. I won’t stop you.”

No mage clever enough to get him back?
His insides plunged into his boots. He did not doubt his ability to survive this world, but the rest could only be achieved by magic. Unless she lied to keep him here.

“No,” she said, catching his accusing look. “I know I promised to help you, but that was before all this. It’s beyond me. I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

A growing panic propelled him from his own chair. He lurched at the sword, propped by the stairs. Every moment away made a victorious return less likely. Never mind that he had last stepped foot on Anxur a thousand years ago.

“Will anyone even remember you if you get back?”

“Time will have moved more slowly for those left behind, but I will have become the stuff of legends. They will remember me.”

“If you fell for a thousand years, surely a few more days will make little difference? Stay awhile, heal. Then decide what to do.”

Tig’s voice, soothing and calming, cut through the panic and urgency. Wise words he could not ignore. Still, she was a woman and he could not allow her to dictate his destiny. He stared at the keen edge of the sword. The desire to lash out and vent his frustration made him tremble. How many people had he killed in a lifetime of battle and conquest? During the Fall, he’d met every one of them. Tig continued to wait, hardly breathing, silently watching his shaking hand. He caught the scent of her fear. The tightening as she tensed for flight.

After a suitable interval, he shook his head to clear away the demons and said, “I have decided to stay until my arm heals.”

“A wise decision.” Tig breathed again and nodded her approval. “Now, tell me my hair looks nice.”

“It is surprisingly beautiful. You washed it for me?”

She removed the sword, peeling back his rigid fingers from the hilt one by one. Carefully, she replaced it in its resting place. His gaze followed her hand when she swept the hair away from her face and her fingers when she smoothed the gown over her thighs. Choose life. Is that what she was trying to tell him? In the bathing room, he’d given her a clear enough indication of what he wanted from her. His heart beat heavy in his chest. He had not expected this. Not so soon.

“I hurt,” he said, the admission a gift more precious than gold. “This mortal body hurts. And this eternal soul - it burns me. Every breath I take burns me. I cannot live this life.”

“Yes you can.” Tig was beside him, her body pressed to the line of his, anchoring him in place when he would have run foolishly to his doom. “I can give you something for the pain. And whatever you did, it’s in the past. This is your chance to start again. To make amends. Not many get a chance like this. Take it.”

“It’s not that easy. There are wrongs to right. Histories to reset.”

“Sometimes it is.” Her fingers on his shirt buttons. A shaky laugh. Tig fastened the shirt and reached up to turn down the collar. “Pain-killers are in the cupboard over the sink. Small jar. White pills. Take two. They’ll make you feel a whole lot better. You gave me quite a fright just now. Glad I’m not one of your enemies.”

“I’m sorry for that. You are not my enemy.”

Tig stood back to admire her work. “I might be able to pass you off as a bondsman, if you could act a little more humble. Bit of a long shot, though. I’d have to make an awful lot of pots to afford a man like you.”

He understood the moment for intimacy had passed. And that he was still largely dependent on this woman for his welfare. With no knowledge of this society, he was like a babe taking its first tottering steps.

“You took a great risk bringing me here?”

“You would be considered treasure-trove. I should have handed you over to my ex and taken the cut. He would have passed you on, either for the slave markets, or for ransom. That’s how it works.” She glanced at the sword. “Do me a favour and don’t go charging around the farm wielding that sword like it’s been in your hand since birth.”