by C A Nicks
“You’re raving. But no fever, thank god. Fabian, can you stand? You need to come indoors. You’ll be safer there.”
He should know her. A familiar voice, as was the scent. Spring-time. She smelled of spring-time. And she had a stupid name.
“Tig?”
“That’s me. Come on, Fabio. Give me something to work with here.”
“My name is Fabian Luc...”
Her mouth twitched at the corner. “I know,” she said wrapping him in her arms. “Just teasing. Lean on me and stand.”
“You brought me here?”
“Yes,” she said patiently. “Updates later. Now the priority is to get you down the path and into that house. Can you see it?”
The narrow path wound away to a dip. In the dusky evening light he made out the faded roof tiles and whitewashed walls of a rustic dwelling. The kind of building that housed peasants and swine back in his world. Right now it looked like a palace.
“Yes, I see it,” he said shaking away the last threads of confusion. “I need the services of a mage. Urgently.”
Tig shook her head. “You can’t afford a mage. Few can these days.”
“This is a strange world.” He refused her offer of an arm to lean on. The rebirth into this new life had been painful, but the pain meant he could feel, and if he could feel, he must be alive. He wanted to feel it.
Tig picked up the blanket and walked close, letting him lead the way, while carefully shepherding him along the path. She seemed to have an extraordinary ability to navigate the tender sensibilities of the male ego. Still acting the vanquished, even though she was anything but. Back in his world, she would have made a formidable diplomat.
The windows were shuttered from the inside. The wooden door locked in five places. Tig fished into the inside pocket of her coat and dangled a bunch of iron keys from one finger.
“Want to do the honours? Or shall I?” The tone remained neutral. As if she were asking a long-time acquaintance rather than her captor. Perhaps he caught a hint of sarcasm. Key-keepers opened doors for him. He did not bother himself with such trivial matters.
“Proceed and unlock, that I may enter,” he said, and immediately felt foolish. Men of equal stature had cowered before him. Only his true-brother would dare to address him directly without prior leave. But standing here, at the door of this humble abode, with the unlikeliest of saviours, the formal words of his old life seemed so pompous and inappropriate. He, who had commanded vast armies of men, commanded only laughter now.
Tig gave him a half-bow and with a flourish, inserted the key into the first lock. She was grinning widely by the time she’d opened them all and bade him enter in a gruff voice that sounded distinctly like a mimic of his own.
To salvage his pride, he waited several heartbeats before moving, forcing her to look at him in all his glorious nakedness. He noticed the spring of heat to her cheeks every time her gaze fell to his genitals. Whether it was admiration or just fascination, he couldn’t tell. A married woman was no innocent, but she blushed like a virgin now as his body responded to her scrutiny.
“You need clothes,” she said wryly, and disappeared into the dark interior.
He followed, dipping his head to avoid the low beam. The door opened directly into a room that was part kitchen, part reception chamber. Tig looked even more other-worldly in the glow of the single lamp she’d lit and placed on the wooden table. He took in the iron stove, the stone sink with pump for water. A tall clock stood against the far wall and well-worn armchairs huddled around a fireplace. The room smelled of ash and the lingering scent of dried herbs, hanging in bunches from hooks on the wall.
The house appeared bigger on the inside than it did from without. The kind of dwelling and furnishings afforded by an artisan or a farmer. Tig pointed to one of the armchairs.
“Sit. I’m going upstairs to find you some clothes. Then I’ll make us a meal. Bartered for a goat-leg last week. It should still be good to go. Do you like goat?”
“I could eat Cafino raw right now.”
Tig’s laughter was slightly hysterical but quite spontaneous. He felt rather pleased to have elicited such a response and wracked his brains for another witty remark. Nothing came, so he contented himself with watching her wipe away the tears and then start laughing again as she remembered what he’d said.
“Don’t mind the laughter,” she said at length. “It’s been a very strange day.”
“I find your laughter quite pleasant,” he replied, and then wanted to kick himself for sounding so condescending. He couldn’t remember the last time someone laughed because he was funny, rather than because he was the high lord and people always gave him the response they thought he wanted.
Tig tilted her head and regarded him thoughtfully. “When you say jump, people jump – right? I guess that makes it hard to know what’s real, and what isn’t?”
His gaze dropped to his dirty feet. Being read like a book was an uncomfortable feeling and this woman saw far too much. “Clothes,” he said. “And food.” He wanted to add, and you, but he didn’t think he would live up to his nickname on this night.
“Will you allow me to splint your arm?”
“There is nothing wrong with my arm.”
Tig shrugged, as if she didn’t care a jot. But her eyes lied. He saw the concern and the way she pursed her lips.
“Suit yourself. But if you don’t let me set that bone, it will mend crooked. And then what use will it be?”
“Stop questioning me!” He growled out the words, louder than he’d intended. Tig took a step back, hands raised in resignation.
“I know. Not my concern.” She turned for the stairs, hesitated then turned back to him. “I’ve known men like you. Men who stand on their principles, even if it means death to themselves and those around them. My father was the same, and so were my brothers. It got them nothing but pain and a shortened life. The warlord before Carson sent a war band and my father refused to compromise. All they asked was public tribute and fifty percent of the farm revenue. If he’d given them that, they would all be alive today.”
Fabian listened, unsurprised by her words. He had honoured men who refused to compromise their honour and submit to him. Honoured, then executed them.
“And you are what? The reed that bends in the wind?”
“Damned right I am,” Tig ground out. “I did what they wouldn’t to save the rest of my family. When Carson made a successful challenge, I offered myself, and luckily he took me as his tenth wife. I gave myself to him and did everything he desired because it was the only way to survive.”
“You gave in. In my world we would call that a weakness.”
“I gave what was mine to give. Big difference. I…”
Fabian smelled the salt of her tears but already knew she was far too proud to let them fall. She had no-one to wipe them away for her so she would sniff them back, straighten her spine and continue to move forward and live her life.
“In my world, it is customary to give a gift when entering the house of a friend,” he said by way of distraction. “May I assume friendship with you?”
He heard Tig sniff. Again, she gave an indifferent shrug. “You can assume what you like.”
“Good. Then I wish to offer you a gift.”
“A gift?”
Fabian caught the glint of hope in her voice. The way she leaned forward in anticipation. Had he been home, he would have showered her with gold for saving his life. Now, all he had to offer was this.
“I will admit that my arm pains me. You may set it and splint it for me, at your leisure.”
Again, another bark of disbelieving laughter. Wisely, Tig clamped a hand over her mouth to stop the sound. She took a deep breath and composed herself before speaking.
“Thank you, my lord. You do me a great honour.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgement, hearing the mockery, but showing that he too could bend with the wind. Adapting to this temporary new home would be difficult, but he would do whatev
er it took to get him back to Anxur. If that meant letting this woman know he felt pain, then so be it.
The old leather chair embraced him. He was drifting when Tig placed a mug of something hot and savoury into his hand. A blanket, softer than Cafino’s, settled over his legs.
“Don’t spill it,” she whispered. “Or drink too quickly.” Her hand wrapped around his to steady the cup and help lift it carefully to his mouth. “Something ate the goat. Desert wolf probably. Storm blew the store-room door wide open. This will dull the pain and help you sleep. I’ll set your arm while you’re out.”
Drugged? The room tipped and started a slow spin. Fabian struggled against the effect of the sleeping draught, to no avail. Time, the room, Tig, slid away to be replaced by the sensation of waves lapping gently at the shore. Feeling safer than he had in a thousand years, he spread himself out and let them take him.
* * * *
With him here, neither of them was safe.
Send for a runner, her better judgement nagged. Have him collected and pocket the fee. What good will come of this?
A find like Fabian belonged to the local warlord.
Damn them. Damn them all. She found him. His fate was hers to decide.
“You’re going home,” she told the sleeping figure. “Wherever that is. And if it involves a big reward for me, then so much the better.”
Fabian tolerated the setting and splinting with barely a whimper. Stoical, even in sleep. “Where else are you hurting?” she murmured. A man this proud would rather die than admit a weakness. If he had internal injuries, she could only wait for him to die and then bury him deep, where no wild beast or man could find him. She didn’t want him to die.
She found a pot of antiseptic salve to rub into the cuts littering his skin. Too many scars, old and new, for him to be anything but a warrior or a member of one of the war-gangs. Carefully, Tig eased down the blanket to smooth the soothing lotion into the diagonal cut that ran from his waist to his belly-button and then she bound the hole made by the crossbow bolt. She worked diligently, trying in vain to detach from the memory of the crisp dark hair circling his magnificent cock. Her husband had been well-endowed, but Fabian, oh my. She worked in the salve, determined not to stare at the bulge tenting the blanket. A perfectly natural thing. Nothing to get so hot and bothered about. Sex was vastly overrated, anyway.
Oh Tig, she scolded herself. He’ll be gone as soon as he’s healed. Don’t get involved. Don’t get attached.
She measured his beautiful shoulders with her hands, curving her fingers around the smooth, hard muscle, sweeping down to the planes of his chest. His short hair was dark, like his eyes and in repose he’d lost the frown marks marring his forehead. She traced the line of his nose, feeling the slight bump that might have been an old break. Touched the scar where a blade had sliced his cheek. He needed a shave, and a bath. She sniffed, surreptitiously, finding the stench of sweat and man strangely arousing. Fabian muttered and shifted to his side. The blanket slipped. Tig quickly replaced it.
Man, was Anxur-Jopra ugly. She laid her forearm against Fabian’s comparing the marks. At least it wasn’t Crolos. Then she would have had to shoot him on sight. You couldn’t afford to be sentimental about these things. Not if you wanted to live.
Let him sleep. Something told her he’d earned a few hours of peace. He was like a fish tossed from the sea by a rogue wave. Completely at odds with his environment. A man uttering a silent scream only she could hear.
She left Fabian the lamp, using up precious supplies because no one should wake up in the dark in a strange place. Outside, she heard the long, lonely howl of a desert wolf. No answer tonight. Probably an outcast like her. She’d cried too long into the night for someone special to help shoulder the burdens of this life. She pitied the animal and then she envied it. For the wolf, hope was a well that never ran dry.
Sleep was impossible. She fought the urge to keep checking on the very unexpected man asleep in her armchair. As a distraction, she climbed to the attic and brought down the rifle. Cleaning it gave her something to do with her hands. Something not nearly as interesting as touching Fabian, but the gentle back and forth of the oily rag, and the memory of her father and brothers doing the same calmed her a little and gave her space to think and plan.
The craziest of thoughts took root as she worked.
When he leaves, go with him. Start that new life you’ve always dreamed of.
Then she caught sight of herself in the folding mirror on her dresser. Candlelight threw shadows into the gaunt hollows of her cheeks. Tangled hair, pale and listless, curtained her face. Her brother’s old work-shirt hung from bony shoulders. Cuffs pulled back over wrists too thin to be hers - surely? A man like Fabian would not want to be seen with this sad-looking creature.
Methodically, she reassembled the gun. Sighted down the barrel. Fabian had a life to live, and so did she. And hers didn’t involve waiting for a man to show her the way.
* * * *
He felt the loss of the bracelets like a ghost limb after amputation. Tight bands tugged at his upper arms, and yet, when he looked, Fabian saw only the pale marks where the sun had not bronzed him.
How great was the fall of the mighty. Instead of silks and leather, he had only his own skin. No war-horse of the purest breed. Crude pottery instead of silver and gold. A smelly lamp with its mean light, instead of candles that blazed with the light of a thousand suns. The wagons carrying plunder had stretched as far as the eye could see.
“You’re alive, Fabian.” Tig stopped battering the lump of dough into submission and wiped floury hands on her pants. “You should be singing, not frowning.”
Fabian unfolded himself from the chair, tugging the blanket around him to spare Tig’s delicate sensibilities. How could a poor little creature like her, be so wise? And so familiar, too. Did she not know who he was? He shook his head. Of course she didn’t.
“I have nothing to sing about. When can you organise a mage for me?”
“Look around, Fabian. Do I look as if I can afford the services of a mage?”
Unfortunately, she spoke the truth. His first glance had warned him she was not a woman of means.
“You must have something you can sell.”
“Whoa. Hold it just there. Give me one good reason why I should put myself out for you?”
“More riches than you could ever imagine,” he replied, gazing absently out of the window at the flag-stoned yard and meadows beyond. “Help me return to my own world, and you will be well rewarded.”
“Well,” she said, dropping the dough into a warmed bowl. “Now you’re talking. What’s all this about your world? You’re from the Bartain province in the north, right? I’ve heard they keep their hair short, like yours. Or was it stolen?”
What should he tell her? It sounded fantastic even to his own ears. I fell for a thousand years down a pit that cycled through dimensions and time. This is where I landed.
“Not exactly. But I do need to return home. Where will I find a mage?”
“They’re all operating underground now or controlled by one gang or another. How’s the arm?”
“It will mend.” The words almost came out as a question. Past battle wounds had healed with him barely noticing. How mortals healed, he had no idea.
“Only a mage can get me home.”
“Are you going to tell me why?”
“A primitive such as you would not comprehend.”
“Hey!” A splat of soft dough hit him on the cheek.
“Primitive is a relative thing. Just because I don’t have much, it doesn’t mean I’m lacking in the brain-cells’ department.”
“I never said you lacked intelligence. Merely that you lived like a primitive. I need clothing. I do not think a horse blanket is proper attire for the…” he stopped himself. What would he do if the leader of a powerful clan suddenly turned up at his doorstep, bewildered and injured and declaring his identity to all? “I do not think a horse blanket is prope
r attire. Show me what you have. I need to make my way to the nearest settlement.”
“Okay. Okay. Hold the horses.”
“Do I look like the kind of man who would bother himself holding horses?” As with most females, Tig talked mostly gibberish. Fabian turned back to the window to regroup. This was a game they must play on her terms, for now. He murmured a short prayer of thanks that this woman had found him, rather than the marauding war-bands of which she had spoken.
“Who are you, Fabian? Where did you come from?” He felt her hand, gentle on his shoulder. Her warm breath against his back. Her boldness, the way she approached and addressed him, without prior leave, was oddly exciting. But it also made him feel vulnerable.
“A war-lord,” he said at length. Best couch it in terms she would understand. Not too far from the truth. “Taken as hostage. After a long and noble struggle,” he added.
“Of course,” Tig murmured in words that lacked her usual sarcasm. Her hand was warm on his flesh. He tensed to stop himself leaning into its comforting embrace.
“Naturally, I escaped. Killing most of my captors. And then you found me. They put a forgetfulness spell on me. I need a mage to help me remember where home is.”
Soft lips touched his shoulder blade. Or did he imagine that?
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Tig said. “The strongest of men will find themselves wrong-footed at some time in their lives. I can’t promise you a mage. But I will do all I can to help you to return home.”
“That pleases me.” He turned to her and fingered a lock of fair, greasy hair. “You would be quite passable if you took more care of yourself. Beautiful, even. Do you not wish to be attractive to men?”
“A compliment?” Tig arched her brows and deftly flicked the hair from his fingers. “Where I come from, attractive women are raped and taken as plunder. Or raped and held for ransom. Do you understand?”
“Only too well. But I should like to see you cleaned up.”
“Why should I want to attract attention to myself? Didn’t you hear what I just said? If you want clothes, they’re upstairs. My father was a big man. His clothes should fit you.”