Lords Of The Dark Fall - Fabian (27 page)

“Which is?”

“Motivation and conviction. With that in place, half the battle is already won.”

He did the same to her, starting at her shoulders, shaping her body with his hands. Sending her mind in directions it shouldn’t be going in the middle of so serious a discussion.

“So small a package and yet so wise. Yes, if I could win by conviction alone, then victory would be assured.” Tilting his chin at the painting he said, “Immortalise me in art and verse so that your people may know a legend walked among them.”

Walked? Again with the past tense. The band around her heart tightened a notch. Might as well get used to it. Worry would be a constant companion from now on.

“I will. But only if you promise to survive. Wherever you end up, whatever you do, I need to know you’re alive. Can you do that for me?”

“Oh, I intend to survive. You may count on that.”

It was getting harder to hold back the tears. The last thing he needed to see. “Now, shoo,” she said unable to keep up the façade for much longer. “Go continue your training, or wash if you’re done for the day. I’ve work to do, can’t stand around talking.”

She turned her back to give him the hint. And so she wouldn’t have to keep staring at his ripped torso. A grown woman going wobbly at the knees over a few muscles? She really did need to get out more.

What if he didn’t survive? What would she do then?

She would do what she always did and carry on. Glancing around the room, she took a quick inventory. Everything but the kiln was portable. She needed a bigger one anyway. New starts were good. Who knew what she would achieve when she gained her artist licence proper?

Finally, Fabian took the hint and left her alone. Within minutes, she heard the rhythmic thwack of axe on wood. Hopefully he was splitting logs and not breaking down her barn. She’d felt his frustration, as he must have felt hers. The physical tension was so much easier to deal with than this mental torment.

But deal with it they must. He didn’t want to stay. She couldn’t have him. It didn’t get much simpler than that. Outside, Fabian hacked away. He had the right idea. Crossing to her clay-bin, she lifted the lid and scooped out a rough lump. It hit the table with a thump and then she matched him blow for blow, working the clay until it formed a smooth, glossy ball. She could not spend the rest of her days thinking about him. Life had to go on.

The clay just happened to fall into the shape of a head. With an experimental poke of her thumb, she made the depression of an eye. Added another. Pinched out a nose. She flew across the room and sorted through her wooden carving tools. Back at her bench, she pulled up a chair and bent over the face. Carefully, she formed a mouth, added detail to the eyes and nose. Dabbing on clay pellets, she modelled the cheek-bones and hair.

There was always a moment when an inanimate lump of clay transformed and became something else. One moment she was modelling a lump of clay, the next Fabian’s head lay on the table, vacant eyes staring up at her.

A death-mask
? 
Oh god in heaven, it looked just like a death mask.
Please don’t let this be a portent.
Screwing up her fingers, she obliterated the features and then rolled the ball back into an anonymous lump of clay.

The chopping sound had stopped and when she pulled back the curtain to check up on him, she started at the sight of Fabian standing at the side of the barn, eyes closed, palms raised in front of him as if in supplication. The red-chequered shirt along with his height flashed her back to a time her father would stand in the same spot and watch the ridge for her brothers’ return. He would never rest until his family were all safely within the boundary of the farm. God, how she missed them all.

Fabian’s lips moved, as if in prayer. Unconsciously, she touched the image of the fish on her arm. She knew little of Fabian’s beliefs, save that he was exalted enough to have a personal deity and that, like her, he didn’t bother too much with regular worship. Seeing him pray reminded her that she ought to show her face at a church service soon or questions would be asked. The last thing she wanted was a visit from the pastor, who seemed to have decided lately that saving her soul would be his life’s work.

Bringing his hands together, Fabian followed with a bow and then brought his joined hands to his forehead. She saw him laugh to himself and shake his head as if at some private joke. Around her, he’d done a good job of keeping up his guard, of showing her his warrior face. Rare for her to be able to study him unobserved. Did she imagine the slump of his shoulders, or was he tired from his training? Standing there, staring at the distant horizon, he looked immeasurably sad. A look she’d rarely seen on him.

The slightest loss of focus, of doubt in his ability could be enough to see him killed.

How did they play this? She knew only that Carson was dead, challenged and vanquished by one of his trusted elite guards. Had a formal challenge been issued or had Warrington seen an opportunity and chanced his arm? Had deals been struck with the different factions within the camp? Still too much they didn’t know about the current camp politics. Ignorance was dangerous.

Knowing Fabian, he’d want his challenge formally announced. The fight to be a proper spectacle with a time and a place. He would fight by rules, unlike Warrington who would fight dirty and not lose a jot of sleep over it. For all his bluster, Fabian had lived a more sheltered life than he realised. He’d been bowed to and pandered to for the whole of his life. The man had no idea of his limitations. Not one of his court had dared best him in a fight.

And worst of all, someone had seen his weakness, thrust home and left him with nothing. Not even the clothes on his back.

So sure of his victory and yet he’d been beaten once. He could be again.

She let the curtain drop.
Damn, this worry would be the death of her
. To win he’d need something to fight for. Sure, he ultimately wanted to go home, but that was as yet some mythical place in a possible future. What he needed was something tangible, something now. Something he couldn’t afford to lose.

His life? He’d already realised that mortality gave him an edge he’d not yet experienced. Was it enough? A crazy thought crossed her mind. Sure, people fought for their lives, but what if she upped the stakes? Would he fight for her?

Back at her bench, she found a wire and cut the clay ball into four. Work was a good discipline and would stop her worrying. They still had to eat, although with Hal now in the mix the problem of supplies diminished. In the short-term, anyway. Staring at the balls of clay, she decided on a set of hand-painted buttons. Archaeologists raved about the pottery artefacts they dug up from the old civilisations. If she studied them carefully enough, she might even be able to fake a few finds of her own.

If she stayed, she put herself in danger. That was a given. She risked falling into Hal’s clutches. She might even end up executed for supporting Fabian, if the worse came to the worse.

Would it help or hinder him? Distract him or give him the extra edge he desperately needed?

She rolled, kneaded, flattened and with the carving-tool traced an intricate pattern on each clay-button, her mind a jumble of thoughts that were proving impossible to force into some semblance of order. She loved the man and would stay for that reason alone. She’d sealed her fate the moment she decided to bring him home with her. Too late to detach from all this.

She could talk all she liked about leaving him. She never would. Not until she knew he was safe.

The extra food was helping. At last, the mirror reflected back a man he vaguely recognised. Fabian flexed his biceps, turning to inspect his back. This new leaner physique lent him different strengths. He was faster, more agile and since Warrington favoured fists and knife rather than axe and sword, these new strengths would serve him well.

The well-balanced blade acquired for him by Hal sat well in his palm and could end a life as easily as the heaviest axe and sharpest sword. The combat would be close and therefore bloody, the physical and mental toll immense.

And today he would get his first glimpse of the man who did not yet know he existed. The man whose reign he would soon end. If all went according to plan.

“I don’t think this is a good idea. Too much risk of being seen.”

Tig stood in the bedroom doorway watching him strap on his weapons, shrug into her father’s jacket. She’d stayed, which pleased him immensely, although at some cost to herself judging by the increasing amount of concern in her expression. Being Tig, she hid it well. That he noticed it at all was a testament to the torment he put her through.

“I cannot prepare without seeing him.”

He felt her hands on the jacket, always so light and gentle, smoothing out the creases with care. Would another woman ever touch him like this?

“Well, be careful you’re not seen. Otherwise you’ll be forced to challenge him now.”

He stilled. “You do not believe me ready?”

“I think a few more weeks of training will hone your edge.” She moved in front of him to fuss with his lapels. Flashed him an apologetic smile for doubting him. “That can’t hurt, can it?”

He caught her by the shoulders when she made to move away. “Tig, I would always have your honesty. Never be afraid to tell me what I need to hear.”

She moved easily into his arms, fitting as if made for them. Nothing more had been said about her leaving. He’d asked her to stay and she’d stayed. Now the stakes were increasing, he should command her to go for her own safety, yet his lips would not form the words. He kissed her hair.

“Are you coming with us?”

“Would you try and stop me?”

“No.” She was here as equal partner. Her bravery deserved no less an honour. Although he suspected that had he tied her to the bed for her own safety, she would still find a way to join them.

“Hal can enter the camp unhindered. What’s the plan for getting you up close?” She picked up a hairbrush and started on her hair. Automatically, he took the brush from her and got to work on the tangles.

“Hal is taking the wagon to deliver some tribute. I will be hiding under the baseboard. Should Warrington choose to walk the camp, I will be afforded a good view of him.”

“That’s a pretty screwy idea. They’ll search the wagon.”

“And find only the false-floor.”

“How can I help?” When he’d finished on the tangles, she swiftly plaited her hair and twisted the thick strand around her head, securing it with a series of hair-pins. “I heard Warrington granted the ex-wives amnesty so I’d probably be able to enter the camp in relative safety.”

“You are to go nowhere near the camp,” he said in a voice that invited no argument. That point he was taking a stand on. “Tell me you will remain outside and do nothing foolish. I will need total focus with no distractions. Do you understand?”

The slightly mutinous set of her chin worried him, and she nodded rather too meekly for his liking. How did he make her understand a commander could only win a battle with total obedience from his troops? That they all had a part to play and hers was to sit on the sidelines and observe?

“Calm down,” she said and rose on tip-toe to return his kiss. “You can trust me. I’m not about to do anything stupid. I came up to tell you Hal is waiting below and he has men with him. Apparently, they want to declare loyalty and join your cause.”

“How many?”

“Three.”

Crossing to the window, he pulled back the curtain and counted them for himself. Three men of differing ages sat in the bed of the wagon. All were staring at the house as if they expected the Chosen One himself to appear before them. Hal sat in the driver’s seat, his demeanour deceptively casual. Fabian took in the slight twitch of the whip dangling from his hand, the surreptitious glances at the house.

“Why bring them here now?” His initial delight at having seen the beginnings of an army had quickly given way to irritation at Hal’s presumption. The three below constituted a serious breach of security and may have to pay with their lives. He looked again. All were familiar from the raid a week back.

Tig sidled up to the window beside him. “They’re Hal’s men. The ones he sent on the raid. It’s a good sign at least that they didn’t go running to Warrington about you. Do you want to meet them?”

“No use in hiding if they’ve already seen me. It’s Hal I’m annoyed at. He had no right to grant them an audience without consulting me first.”

“Hal holds too many cards in this. We have to play him very carefully.” Her fingers on his arm again, doing what she did best. Calming him and setting him back on an even keel. “This is how it works. The slightest whiff of a leadership challenge and everyone scrambles for sides. Count yourself lucky that three have already come your way.”

“I will meet them, then and sufficiently impress them that more will follow.”

“Impress them with what? Have you decided on your angle, yet? Why they should swap Warrington for you?” She jammed a knit-cap onto her head. Inspected her image in the mirror. “Carson was pretty liberal as warlords go. Warrington falls more into the tyrant category. If that’s all you have to offer then you don’t have a hope of gaining support.”

“I merely need access to the best mages. I have no manifesto beyond that.”

“Mages who may or may not be able to get you home. I know you don’t care what happens if you manage to get away, but what if you take the leadership and you’re forced to stay? Without a manifesto, you’ll be challenged immediately.”

“I will show largesse. Desperate folk are easily bought. Would you announce me?”

She gave him a deep bow. “I will my lord. Give me two minutes and then follow me out.”

A fleeting vision of Tig in herald’s livery sprang into his mind. Would he have noticed her back on his world? Even in the midst of drama and tragedy she managed to find something to smile about. That, he was learning, was what drove humankind to keep trudging on when life attempted to grind them down. She was his rudder as he navigated the unfamiliar waters of her world.