Lords Of The Dark Fall - Fabian (40 page)

Fabian unsheathed his own knife and held his ground. He would not play by Warrington’s tactics. Warrington raised his knife, point downwards, the handle clutched in his fist. A blur of movement as he flicked his wrist and rolled his forearms one over the other. Making the weapon virtually disappear – Fabian had seen that move many times. Valuable information as he now knew what method Warrington favoured. The most likely blows would come at the eyes, the side of the neck, the flank of his rib-cage and into the heart.

No wrist guards. He didn’t have any and Warrington was now still and being divested of his by the mage. The hand holding the knife remained the primary target. Disable the opponent’s ability to hold his weapon and then finish. Warrington leaned towards the mage, speaking too quietly to be heard.

“The only rule is that from now on there are no rules.” With his stick, the mage drew a line in the dirt. “The game is on. It ends when one of you is dead. Begin.”

The word had hardly died in his throat before a white hot pain, like that of an iron brand, seared Fabian’s biceps. While he’d been listening, Warrington had been moving. Falling back, the warlord’s killing blow missed him by a hair, glancing off a rib with a sickening grate.

The man was faster than blue lightning. Relentless, too. The knife flew to his other hand. Sliced through the air towards the vulnerable veins in Fabian’s neck. Fabian swooped, kicked out, gaining purchase on Warrington’s stomach. The momentum also pushed him back causing his feet to lose grip on the slushy ground. He tumbled onto his backside to the raucous laughter of the crowd, rolled and flipped himself upright.

For a split second he thought he saw Tig’s face. In that moment of distraction, Warrington drove home, burying the tip of his knife just below his ribs. A battle-surge gave him the strength to move before it drove home into what organ lay beneath. Failing a clean kill, Warrington needed only administer enough serious cuts to weaken and then bleed him out.

And he had yet to land a blow.

The killing machine charged forward, blade flying from hand to hand. Fabian had no idea from which side the blow would come. He managed to deflect the blade with his own in a skid of metal on metal. The momentum threw them together, both blades finding purchase in flesh. Another wound, this time to his stomach. A quick glance and relief to see that his intestines were still where they belonged. Warrington bled freely from a deep gash to his chest.

Fabian took a few steps back, the distance giving him time to deal with the intensity of the pain. Warrington seemed to be toying with him, interested only in wounding rather than an all out assault. They eyed each other warily.

Fighting for one’s life. Was this it? Instead of conviction, Fabian felt only confusion. The battle surge made his limbs tremble, making it hard to grip the knife. Part of his mind was still on Tig and everything he had to lose should he fall in this fight. He could still see the crowd.

Too fast, everything was happening too fast to process.

Warrington stood impassively by, impossibly calm, waiting for his next move. Fabian swallowed down his heart. If he didn’t get a grip, he was a dead man. He’d come here to fight for Tig, for the chance to return home. For that dream of revenge and to get back what he’d lost. None of that would happen if he didn’t kill Warrington. Right now nothing else mattered.

Slow it down, heart, breathing, time. Tune out the crowd, narrow the vision, forget the pain. Eyes on only one thing, Warrington who looked as if he’d been dragged from something far more interesting in order to crush an insect with his boot.

Exactly the right attitude.

Warrington’s image wavered, split into two, rejoined. It happened so suddenly, Fabian had no time to wonder why. He stabbed, missed by a hair. Warrington hardly noticed the neat red line from breastbone to belly. His wrist flashed and this time Fabian saw every detail in agonisingly slow motion. The arc of Warrington’s arm, a stray ray of light flashing off the blade. A yell that seemed to go on and on. Another cut but no pain. He blocked, locked a fist on Warrington’s forearm and sliced at the wrist holding the knife.

A veil. Someone had covered his eyes with a veil. Or so it seemed. Warrington looked gauzy, and now Fabian saw emotion. The ghost of a smile meant only for him.

Drugged? Is that why his legs were turning to sponge? Warrington had doctored his blade with drugs?

Fabian fell to his knees, slowly and deliberately, arms outstretched, the knife dangling loosely from his fingers. The only strategy left to him, given his weakened state, offering Warrington a target he couldn’t fail to miss. The crowd gasped in unison, fell silent again, waiting for the killing blow.

Warrington’s eyes narrowed, appraising him. He wasn’t buying it. Fabian’s fingers loosened, the knife teetered.

And then Warrington moved. In, stab, out.

Fabian knew only that he’d been hit. He didn’t know where. He’d moved, locked his fingers round the knife, throwing his weight forward, letting the energy of the move travel through his arm, through the knife and into something.

Fabian struggled to push home, two slippery hands on the hilt of his knife. No strength left in his arms. Instead, he lunged, using the last of his reserves to throw himself at Warrington and slam into the hilt of the knife protruding from the man’s chest.

A knife in his heart and Warrington stood rock-solid, refusing to acknowledge his death. His smile turned into a deadly grimace and then slowly his eyes rolled back in his head.

Fabian fell with him, two hands still on the hilt, ramming home the knife with the weight of his body. Abruptly, he slid sideways on the slick of blood streaming from the wound. Rolling onto his back, he saw faces swooping towards him, hands grabbing his arms, dragging him upright. A distant roaring and a woman’s voice screaming his name.

“Stay conscious.” Hal’s voice. “Fight it and stay with us. They need to see you standing in victory.”

The hands fell away, leaving him alone on trembling legs. No pain and yet Fabian knew he’d been cut. Where was Tig?

This part he must do alone. She would stay back.

And he would stand because he was Fabian Lucimanticus Persidio of Alurides. Most high lord of the seven plateaus, king of all he surveyed. Even if it was only a crowd of bedraggled peasants and a huddle of mean wooden huts.

They would build, he vowed, in stone bigger and better. Make this a centre of culture and the arts. Bring some beauty to this gods-forsaken place. A city without parallel named for Anxur, his homeland.

The surge of euphoria drained away. Anxur. Now, the best mages were his to command. Now he could go home.

And now he no longer wanted to.

* * * *

Before Warrington hit the ground two of his men had already mounted their horses and flown through the gates. More would follow if Fabian didn’t find the strength to remain upright. Tig could almost hear the crowd counting in their heads, waiting for him to topple face-forward into the dirt.

She breathed deeply to calm the hammering of her heart. Reminded herself to give him a good telling off when they were alone for scaring her so. Offering himself to Warrington in the hope that he was faster? Crazy man.

A strong will. That’s what the crowd wanted to see. Bleeding freely, battered and bruised, yet Fabian must stand and show them a leader didn’t waver, even in the face of his own death. They would not raise a cheer until satisfied.

“Fabian. Fabian. Our new leader.”

Yelling out his name, she threaded through the crowd, earning herself a few curious glances.

“Fabian!”

More people leaving. The mage bending over Warrington’s body pulled out the knife and then turned his back without a second glance at his former master. Reversing it, he placed the tip against his own stomach and waited for Fabian to give the order. A mage was usually required to follow his master to the next world.

“You may leave. Or choose to stay and work with everyone here to make this a better place.”

Fabian’s voice, strong and clear. How was he still standing, let alone speaking? Their eyes met, briefly. He swayed, righted himself. The mage threw down the knife and walked away.

Disappointing. As yet, only she and Hal had declared for Fabian. He must stand until the rest decided one way or another. If they rejected him, he didn’t have enough outside support to take the leadership by force.

“Fabian! Fabian!”

A commotion by the gate. A small crowd, marching as one behind Hal’s man. This was their moment. Calmly, Tig stepped forward, sealing her fate to that of the man she loved. She could see by the way he narrowed his eyes that he was having trouble focusing. Swaying not only because of the blood loss.

“Drugged,” he whispered as she took her place beside him. “Stand nearer so I may lean on you.”

“Janx and his followers are here. Can you hear them?” She pressed closer, alarmed at the weight of him pressing back. Still the crowd showed no sign of declaring their allegiance. Janx had brought with him fifteen, maybe twenty supporters. A tiny number of god-fearing men and women. Warrington would have slaughtered the lot of them.

“You’ll have to address the crowd. Can you walk?”

He grimaced. “No, but I will. I should cut off Warrington’s plait. Show them the victory token.”

“No, don’t do that. Give them something new. Hal, get on the other side of him. Can’t you see he’s about to fall?”

“He needs his wounds binding. If we don’t do it soon he’ll bleed out.”

“Then hold him up so we can get this done.” She’d carry him herself if she had the strength. At that moment she almost felt she could.

“They do not see me. They do not see the man I was.”

“No, they see something better.”

“You’re a bunch of fools,” she yelled at the muttering crowd.
Oh thank god, there was Calina crossing the line to join with their pitiful crowd.
“Can’t you see what stands before you? How far this man has come? This is Fabian Lucimanticus. The man who will change all your lives. We have a chance here to make things better. What are you waiting for?”

“He’ll be no different to the rest. All they want is power and glory and we’ll still be slaves. Nothing will change.” The saddlemaker, she recognised him from her time in camp. A greedy, avaricious man with a weakness for women and strong ale.

“Your own guild.” Fabian’s weight on her became heavier, but his voice remained strong. “All tradesmen will have their own guilds. Children will be schooled. We will build a city to rival the finest. Who will…”

Both she and Hal grabbed an arm each as he went down. Too heavy to haul him upright, they managed to steady him on his knees, his head hanging. An indecorous pose that would not impress the stupid crowd. He’d killed Warrington for them and still he’d failed. Swallowing down the bitter feeling, Tig wanted to scream that they could all go to hell. The priority now was to bind Fabian’s wounds and make sure he didn’t take an infection or die of whatever Warrington had drugged him with.

Their small band of supporters moved soberly to help in hoisting Fabian aloft. Then, like a funeral party, the procession made its way to the longhouse, now devoid of guards.

“Pastor, do you have a healer in the group? He’s been drugged. We need an antidote and something to fight infection.”

Pastor William peered down at Fabian’s inert body. “Lost too much blood. He won’t survive.”

Fabian did look too still, too pale. His chest hardly moved. She would kill the next man who said it was the end.

“Find him a healer.” Weariness diluted the anger. What use in fighting amongst themselves? “Boil water to clean the packing for the wounds. And post guards at the door. There’s a hostile crowd out there. No telling what they’ll do next.”

Too many people crammed into the small ante-room, silently watching the man who should have been their saviour and instead looked likely to abandon them like all the rest.

“Janx,” she said to the tall youth the band had designated as their leader. “You’re second in command now. Take charge until Fabian is well enough. A counter-challenge now will kill any hopes of realising our dreams.”

Not a chance in hell the youth would have taken Warrington. He’d been willing to try and that’s all any of them could do. Fabian would need willing men to achieve his vision. She wanted to bind his wounds, wipe away the blood, but there was nothing clean enough. The longhouse stank of sweat and ale and the mage’s spicy potions. The bed covering was rank and stained, her own hands too muddy to stem the bleeding.

“Clean bindings,” she said more urgently. “Why are you all standing around doing nothing? Where’s Hal?”

“Gone for Sunas.” The pastor patted her awkwardly. “Whatever happens, this man is the bravest of us all and will always have our gratitude. Let that console you.”

Tig sank to her knees beside the cot. Clutching Fabian’s hand in hers, she brought it to her lips and pressed them to the bloody palm. He couldn’t die. Not when he knew how much she loved him. How much she wanted to have his child.

“Cloth,” someone said. “They look reasonably clean. I’ll use them to stop the bleeding. Don’t worry, Tig. It may not be as bad as it looks.”

“He’s so still.” Vaguely, Tig recognised the speaker. A healer of sorts. The real doctor was still outside, in the waiting crowd.

“Could be the drugs. Most likely a sleeping draught to slow him down without it being too obvious. Give me room to work.”

Tig wouldn’t let go of Fabian's hand. It did not end here. He’d come too far, promised so much for it to end here.

While the healer worked, she laid her head beside Fabian’s and prayed. For his life and all the hopes and dreams that might never be. For the crowd outside to have a miraculous change of heart.

“Don’t go anywhere, my love. I’ll be right back.” One last kiss and she was up and running for the door. The doctor would attend him if she had to drag him here herself. They didn’t take to Fabian? Tough, he was their new lord. He had enough guards to guarantee his safety and he would live and show them exactly what he was made of.