Lords Of The Dark Fall - Fabian (22 page)

“Then say it.” Definitely not one of the society gentlemen from the old days. When Fabian saw advantage, he took it.

“I want it more than anything, too. But a baby would complicate things too much.”

“Let me worry about that.”

He was already astride her, pinning her down with his weight, already seeking entrance.

She couldn’t get him inside her fast enough.

“Pull out before you come,” she gasped, hoping he would, wishing he didn’t have to. Braced over her, he looked in agony. Whether from the sensation or the decision not to spill his seed inside her, she didn’t know. His forehead touched hers, their breath mingled and he held himself rigid, on the brink.

He was gone too soon, pulsing against her thigh, on a groan of deep regret. He rolled to flop onto the bed beside her, breath ragged, leaving frustration in his wake. For both of them, but at least now they knew.

“Have you done it like that before?”

“Only with you.” She was glad now that Carson had respected her choice not to bear him a child. And that she had never let Hal go all the way. Sex up till now had been a momentary pleasure, a duty or a bargaining chip. Here was proof that it could be so much more.

“Is it not better?”

“It’s a whole lot better. And messier,” she said grimacing down at the stain on the bed-sheet.

Fabian narrowed his eyes, touching a finger to the wet mark. “I have never had to concern myself with such things. It was always dealt with immediately.”

She gave a wry chuckle. “Oh, you’ve never had to sleep in the wet patch, that’s for sure. It was good, better than good. I’ve never been so thoroughly loved.”

“I hope you never will be again.” He shook his head. “Selfish of me, I know. I should not have said that.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” She kissed him, a lingering touch of her lips to his and then a light peck on the end of his nose to lighten the mood and ease their way back to reality. Time to step back into life with all its pressures and obligations and impossible decisions. Fabian’s stomach gave a loud grumble.

“Let’s go hunting. Catch something huge and meaty and roast it over the fire-pit like we used to do back in the day. What do you say?”

She had to laugh at the way his dark eyes lit up at the prospect of a kill followed by a meat-feast.

“Will we not be observed?”

She flipped herself upright. Located her underwear. “Worrying about that is getting a little redundant, don’t you think? We’ll stay close to home.”

“What kind of game do you have apart from rabbits?” Fabian followed her lead and gathered up his clothes. Sniffed disdainfully at his shirt and tossed it back onto the floor. “I smell like a serf. Will you bathe me when we return?”

“If you’d like me to.” She picked up the dirty shirt. Handed it back to him. “You’ll be even sweatier when we return. I’ll get you a clean one then.”

He saw the logic in her argument, accepting the shirt without question. She moved to the dresser and stared at herself in the mirror. Despite the mad tangle of her hair, she had a glow about her. That insufferably pleased look only a bit of afternoon delight could bring. Grabbing her silver-backed hair brush, she made a start on the snags. The brush had belonged to her mother, along with the hand-mirror and silver comb. One of the few possessions of value she hadn’t pawned.

Fabian’s large hand sliding the brush from hers took her by surprise. She shivered when his fingers grazed her scalp and all but stopped herself from purring as he pushed the brush into her hair with long masterful strokes.

“Had I still my glorious mane, you could do this for me,” he said. “You have been blessed with beautiful hair. This pale colour is considered very exotic where I come from.”

“Yes, here too. I’m thinking of selling it when I get into town. More people wear their hair short in the towns and cities. Won’t stand out so much and I’ll need the cash.”

The brush stilled. “You will do no such thing.”

“I might have to. It’s a vanity anyway, and I can’t afford to be sentimental, not now.”

The mirror reflected back his pursed lips, his nod of resignation. No big deal, really. It would grow back. On impulse, she opened the dresser draw and found the small scissors she used to trim her nails. Handing them to him she said, “Take a hank, from underneath where it won’t show. I’ll plait it for you, as a memento.”

For a moment, she thought he didn’t want it. He took the scissors and lifted her hair. Clipped a long strand and handed it carefully to her.

“We would wear the hair of the vanquished as ornament.”

“That’s gross. Warlords do that here, too. This is a token, not a trophy.” She laid the hank onto the dresser top. “How long was yours? Before they took it?”

“It fell to my thigh. A symbol of my manhood and courage, it now probably adorns the saddle horn of that bitch of an Imarna queen.”

“Short hair suits you, though. Can I have a piece of yours? Something to remember you by? Because when I’m old and grey I’ll look back on these past few weeks and think I dreamed them.”

He snipped a chunk without hesitation. Laid it on the dresser next to hers, and then solemnly continued with his brushing. No longer relaxed, she felt the anger and something of a hint of melancholy returning. The strokes became harder, faster with no concession to the tangles. She endured it as she had as a child. When he was done he threw the brush onto the dresser and turned for the door.

“I’ll light a fire under the copper so we may have hot water when we return. Bring the bow, I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Poor man. In all of his bluster and arrogance and fanciful stories about having fallen from the sky, she must remember that whatever had happened to him, he’d lost everything and he desperately wanted it back.

And it was her job to help him achieve that.

Hunting for food rather than pleasure lent the experience a much keener edge. No horns blaring or packs of dogs baying for blood. And best of all, no troupe of sycophantic courtiers applauding his every move. Falling over themselves to congratulate him for administering the killing blows to beasts that were already half-dead anyway.

Just he and Tig, the two dogs and a crossbow. And the knowledge that if they didn’t succeed, they wouldn’t eat.

“Over there,” she said and ducked behind one of the rocky outcrops punctuating the scrubby grasslands. In the distance, the pale line of the desert where only the carrion birds and the foolish ventured since the coup. Crouched behind her, crossbow at the ready, he scanned the ridge and saw nothing.

“What are we looking for?”

“Desert deer. See that dip and clump of long grass? It’s behind there. Should be able to nab one without anyone noticing.”

“The game belongs to the warlord?”

“Strictly speaking I’m supposed to pay for a hunting licence. They turn a blind eye to the odd deer or rabbit but any more and they want their cut.” Tig’s features clouded. “Of course with Warrington in charge things might change. I’m sending the dogs. When it breaks cover, take it down.”

At her command, the dogs raced from their hiding places, stopping to sniff the air before taking off towards the grassy tussock. The grass shivered and a small deer-shaped creature dived out of the hole and made for open ground.

“Down.” Tig called the dogs to a halt and nodded him to fire. The first bolt missed, much to his disgust. The creature knew not to run in a straight line. On the second shot he correctly anticipated its trajectory and dropped the creature with a single bolt.

“Yes.” Tig flashed him a grin that probably matched his and raised her brass-rimmed eye-glasses to scan the area. “Binoculars,” she said at his quizzical look. “Like telescopes, but double. Here, you have a look. Better check there’s no one around before we go retrieve.”

Through the glass, the dead creature came into sharp relief. Once, his own eyes had been this keen. Now he could only pick out the lifeless eyes, the trickle of blood streaming from the bolt with these prosthetic aids humans relied on.

“On my world we call this a seeing glass,” he said and handed them back to her. “The area is clear. Stay here, I will retrieve it.”

They’d bought along an oiled winding sheet in which to hide any kills. Keeping low, Fabian scooted forward and quickly rolled the creature into the sheet. Another look around and then he flung it over his shoulder and made his way back to Tig who was waiting anxiously.

“Oh, god in heaven, real food,” she said and kissed him on the mouth. “And look at the size of it, bigger than I expected. We’ll have ourselves a feast.”

“Then let’s get it home before we’re seen.” He shifted the creature on his shoulder, knowing he would kill anyone who tried to take the beast from him. And not only because it was his kill. He was hungrier than he’d ever been. It had seemed impolite to complain when Tig had tried so hard to feed him so he endured the pangs and tightened his belt worrying in silence about the effect on his strength.

She whistled the dogs and slung the crossbow over her back. Threw the ammunition bag containing the two rabbits they’d caught over her shoulder. The dogs leaped at the carcass, whining, excited by the smell of fresh kill. Tig set off beside him, a spring in her step, the triumphant grin still in place. This was how most of his subjects had scraped their livings. By the toil of their hands and their cunning. And they did this each and every day until they died, while he’d dined from golden plates and sat at the head of tables covered with enough food to feed a small army.

Little wonder the poor huddled round the palace gates waiting for the leftovers of his obscene indulgence.

When they neared her property, Tig stopped him with a warning hand and put the binoculars to her eyes, scanning the yard, the house and barns for signs of intruders.

“Shit.” She tore away the binoculars, rammed them back onto her face. “Dammit, visitors.”

Fabian dropped the carcass and took the binoculars. Three horses stood tethered to the post, a man strutted across the yard. Another man stood at the door to the house, and the third was nowhere to be seen.

If they interrupted his dinner, he would kill them all.

“Raiders?”

“No, see the red silks on the bridles? Warrington’s banners if I’m not mistaken. Looks like the bastards have come to take inventory.”

“You think he means to take your farm?”

“More like he needs to work out my tithes and protection dues. Why did they have to come now? One night of peace, it’s all I ask.”

She raised her eyes to the sky as she intoned her impassioned plea. Her god did not impress him. The deity seemed particularly deaf where Tig was concerned.

“Would you like me to kill them?”

She turned to him, horrified. “No. Not unless you want your turf war to start right now. You and the deer stay put. I’ll go down and talk to them. I’ve a little cash hidden in the house, it might just mollify them.”

“How can you be sure they’re not renegades?”

“Because I recognise that horse.” she raised the binoculars once more. “One of them is Hal. Probably volunteered to check the barn so they didn’t get wind of what went down last night. Oh yes, there he is resplendent in his Marshall’s sash. God, I hope he knows what he’s doing.”

“He may have betrayed you. I’m coming down.”

“No, he would have brought more men. A lot more and they’d have sneaked in at night. Don’t look so worried, Hal can’t give us away without betraying himself. At least, I think that’s how it goes. I must appear before they get suspicious and really start snooping around. And if I look guilty, let’s give me something to look guilty about.”

He moved to cover the deer. “They are not having my dinner.”

“And they won’t. I can’t carry that thing down there.” She lifted the bag and slung it back over her shoulder. “You cover me with the crossbow. The dogs caught the rabbits so it’s only half a lie. And they won’t hang me for two little bunnies.” Patting the bag, she rose and called the dogs to her.

“You, woman, are altogether too reckless.”

“And yet I survive. Remember, don’t come charging to my rescue unless I scream, very loudly.”

He wanted to scream. For having his dinner interrupted. For having to watch her pick her way alone down the ridge to the field between them and the farmyard. Nowhere near ready for a confrontation, but he would defend her with his life. If destined to die here in this forsaken land, it might as well be for a noble cause.

The binoculars gave him a good view of her walking into the yard, talking to one of the strangers. Greeting Hal. His poor human hearing did not allow him access to the conversation. Was she laughing? He couldn’t tell. She produced the rabbits, offered them. They were duly refused. She nodded.

Never had he hidden like a child behind its mother’s skirts and now he seemed to be perpetually lurking in some shadow or other. Waiting and watching and feeling as helpless as the day he’d landed naked at Tig’s feet.

Lowering the binoculars, he checked for the position of the setting sun, knowing he must take care not to catch the reflection in the glass. He should never have sent her down there alone.

When he raised the binoculars again, Tig and Hal were nowhere to be seen. After a few agonising moments they both exited her house, Hal pushing an envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket, Tig stopping at the door, one arm resting casually on the frame. The bastard had weakened her further by taking her meagre savings.

He would demand them back, when Hal returned tomorrow. Or there would be no deal.

Beside him lay Tig’s old crossbow. A crude weapon, the mechanism not nearly powerful enough to send a bolt as far as the yard. If he’d have the rifle, he’d have been tempted to send Hal and his two companions to their makers right now.

Finally, the agony of waiting ended. The three men rode from the yard leaving Tig, arms folded, watching them go. She raised a flat palm in his direction, indicating he should wait a while longer before joining her.

No. He didn’t care if Warrington himself appeared to challenge him. Nothing came between him and his dinner, except for perhaps a bath. Hungry as a peasant, stinking like one and all because of those double-crossing bitches of the Imarna.