by C A Nicks
“Goodness,” he said, wide eyes registering shock. “In those clothes, for a moment I thought god in his infinite mercy had returned our dear brother Paul to us. Pastor William is the name.” He extended the arm holding the book. “Would you touch the book, my friend and tell me your own name?”
Other than the shock of mistaking him for Tig’s father, the man did not seem the slightest bit surprised to see him. That, or he didn’t care to pass judgement on who Tig chose to have as guest. Since the man appeared to pose no threat, Fabian forced himself to relax, while keeping a wary eye out for anyone else the man might have brought with him. To act any other way would only arouse suspicion.
So this was the pastor of whom Tig had spoken? Briefly, Fabian touched the book, which he guessed contained holy writings. The pastors’ eyes positively glittered with religious zeal, his smile benevolent and just a little bit condescending. Fabian had known many like him during his long years. Question was, what did he do about this uncalled for intrusion? The man would surely go straight back to where he’d come from and tell everyone Tig harboured a stranger.
“Your name, my friend. Will you share your name?” The pastor tucked the book under his arm, all the while glancing at the house. No doubt wondering when Tig would show. “Are you a relative, or has Tig hired someone to take this huge burden from her shoulders? You have nothing to fear from me. Speak up.”
Still Fabian said nothing. Did the man not see a great warrior before him? Or was he too stupid to realise? No one in their right minds could mistake him for a mere farm-hand. Could they?
Lifting his chin, Fabian recalled trampling men like pastor William underfoot as if they were dung-beetles. A taste of royal ire usually showed them the error of their ways. Not an option here, though. Killing the man would be the best course, although perhaps he ought to ask Tig first. Some people were superstitious about killing holy men.
Pastor William’s smile remained fixed on his face. When it was obvious no name was forthcoming, he nodded and turned for the house. “Is Tig inside? Haven’t seen her at worship for a good few weeks now. Thought I should make sure nothing is wrong.”
Yes, Fabian decided. The man was stupid. Turning his back on an unknown warrior, acting as if he had a god-given right to invade Tig’s privacy whenever the need took him. A blow from behind. He wouldn’t know what hit him. Fabian’s fist bunched.
“Tig is not inside,” he said instead.
“Because she’s gone to camp? To enquire about her friend? I heard--”
The last word came out on a splutter. With one hand clamped about the pastor’s neck, Fabian hauled him to the porch and dumped him into one of the chairs. Now at least the man had the grace to look surprised.
“What makes you say that?”
“Don’t hurt me. She was seen. Thought I would come over to offer solace. To see how she was.”
The pastor cowered in the chair, trembling palms raised in surrender.
Better, Fabian thought. His mouth turned dry. “Seen? By who?”
“It’s all right. She was being discreet and left unhindered. One of my contacts saw her enter camp and came straight to me. Even with the amnesty offered by Warrington, Tig would not be in camp without a reason. Word also has it there’s to be a challenge. Is she involved?”
Stupid and blind? Fabian would have burst out laughing had he not been so worried about Tig. He couldn’t resist standing a little straighter, puffing out his chest to strain the lacings of the leather vest. Tossing back his head to show off the aristocratic lines of his face.
The pastor’s startled eyes travelled slowly from the body-armour to his face and then back down the length of his body to his boots, almost as if seeing him for the first time. The adam’s-apple wobbled in his throat.
“You?”
“You were perhaps expecting Ermies the Giant? Yes, me you fool. Who else?” Wounded pride had loosened his tongue. He shouldn’t have said it and yet the new-found respect in the pastor’s eyes almost made the indiscretion worthwhile.
And had of course, sealed the man’s doom. He should kill him now, before Tig came back and turned it into a debate.
“You can count on my support. Any friend of Tig’s is a friend of mine.” This time the pastor offered a normal handshake, taking back the trembling hand when Fabian glared at him for his audacity.
“No, of course not,” the man muttered. “How presumptuous of me. Oh, thank our god, there’s Tig.” He looked about to faint with relief when Hal’s wagon, complete with Tig rattled into the yard at speed.
A moment of stunned silence and then she was jumping down, shouting something about riders.
“Came from the south road and joined the trail below the ridge, so it wasn’t me they were following, but they did know to come here.” Striding up the porch steps, face set in stone, she looked as if she would murder the pastor herself. “You led them straight here, you stupid man. If I’d wanted a three-ring circus trumpeting my every move, I’d have hired one.”
Sensing her agitation, both dogs leaped from the wagon and streaked towards the deck. One on each side of the pastor, they bared their teeth. His knuckles gripping the chair turned white.
Hal called from the wagon. “Come back, Tig. We have to keep going.”
“You go,” she shouted him back. “We can still save this if we keep our calm. Fabian, take the pastor and his wagon and follow Hal. Go to the Gerrely’s and hole up there until I come for you. The men who followed him need to find me here.”
“I’ll see you there. Hal wasted no time in whipping up his horse and turning his wagon to skirt the barn and head out through a gap in the broken-down fence across the spring-field. No time to worry about trampling the few seedlings that had managed to poke their heads above the earth.
Tig was safe. At this moment in time she was safe and here with him. In all the chaos, Fabian’s mind could grasp only one thing. She’d made it in and out of camp alive. But only just, by the sound of things. He wanted to reach over and tuck away the stray strand of hair that had fallen from the plait. Blown by the spring breeze, it flapped like a strand of gold silk. It felt somehow too intimate an act to allow this buffoon of a pastor to witness. With a mental shake, he snapped into action.
“Let me kill this blubbering fool and then pick off the pursuers from the barn. How many?”
“Five, I think.”
“Is Warrington among them?” His limbs stiffened at the thought. Every muscle hardening, his focus sharpening down to one thing. Kill Warrington and take his throne. After that, everything would fall into place.
“Not likely if there are only five. If we kill them, we start a private war.” Her clear-eyed gaze told him she’d take that option if he willed it. He should give something back in return.
“That was our intention all along, was it not?”
He glanced at the pastor, who must have suddenly realised Tig hadn’t contradicted his suggestion they kill him. Lifting the book, he covered his face and whimpered. “With you,” he said. “With you. You have my support.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up.” Tig growled out the words, joined in chorus by the eager dogs who waited only for the command to attack.
“If they followed the pastor it will look odd that they don’t find him here.”
A surge of pride for his warrior-in-arms. He would rather a hundred Tig’s at his back than a thousand fool pastors. “And if they do, he will soil himself and blab and tell them everything. Look at the man.”
“Leaflet drop,” the pastor said, fumbling through the pages of his book. When he didn’t find what he wanted, he opened his coat and dipped into the inside pocket. Fabian’s arm shot out, stopping the pastor before he could draw a weapon. Slowly, Fabian pulled the hand from the pocket. In his fist, the pastor clutched a small printed paper. He snatched it from him.
“What is this?”
“My pastoral letter. Times of services, a few wise words for my flock.” He swallowed hard. “I’m on my ro
unds dropping them off at the outlying farms. Have to rush because I’m needed at a death-bed other side of the plain. A good excuse, yes?” Nodding enthusiastically, he looked from Tig to Fabian. “Better that I’m not here when they come.”
“You snivelling coward. I ought to tie you to that wagon and set the cart aflame. Let the horse run you off the ridge.”
“No.” Tig had to physically restrain him. In his eyes, the pastor had long outstayed his welcome.
“Go,” she said, lifting her chin towards the pastor’s wagon. “You’re right. Better that you’re not here. And remember. The fires of inferno will be a kindergarten picnic compared to what this man will do to you if you renege on your promise of support? Are you listening?”
The pastor slid from the chair, bolting to the wagon before either of them could change their minds. The scent of his fear clung to the air. Fabian wrinkled his nose in disdain at the brown stain streaking the wooden chair.
Tig was already whipping off the hooded top. Unlacing the side fastening of her skirt. “Take my clothes and hide them. Grab the rifle and crossbow and then get into the hay-loft and give me cover. I’ll try and keep them out here, in range. I know how to deal with these men. Don’t fire unless you really have to. If I need you, I’ll hold up two fingers like this.” She demonstrated the sign for surrender. Middle and forefinger pressed together and held aloft. “Whatever I do, you don’t move a muscle until you see that.”
“I would that we had time for more.” He took a precious moment to drink in the sight of her, clad only in a strappy camisole and plain, white underdrawers. Woollen stockings, the knife still strapped to her thigh. An erotic dream made flesh.
The bundled clothes hit him mid-chest. “Later,” she whispered. “Let’s get through this first.”
We will, he thought. A man could take on the very demon Zhorati itself on a promise like that.
* * * *
Upstairs, she found a drawing. Folded in half and tucked into the shelf of the nightstand beside the bed, she found a crude drawing of a woman with long hair, a thin face and wide eyes. Not very accomplished, but the pencil strokes were deliberate and sure.
No doubt about the subject. And no time to think about the lump in her throat, the tears welling in her eyes. To wonder about the carefully-formed script at the foot of the page, in glyphs she did not recognise. Beside the drawing lay the lock of hair. Apart from the fighting knife given by Hal, Fabian’s only possessions.
She hadn’t seen many poignant moments in her life, but here was one. Another little piece of the puzzle that was Fabian. The man she loved more deeply every time she saw him.
Concentrate. Survive. No time to sit about dreaming of love. Lock the dogs in the attic. One wrong move and they were dead. Grab the rest of her cash in case they’d come for tribute, throw on her old work-clothes, stay in the moment like she did before Fabian came and taught her how to dream without even knowing it.
She took the stairs, two at a time, locked the door and ran into the yard. No sign of Fabian. Within minutes, she was in her studio and searching frantically for a half-finished drawing, pens and ink. Laying them on her bench, she pulled a lump of clay from the bucket and quickly formed it into the shape of a dish.
Beside her she noticed the cup of tea she’d let go cold to go attend yet another crisis in her life. Warm the cup with a lit match, the best she could do to give the impression she’d been in here for some time, diligently working.
Relax. Noise of the horses would let her know when they arrived. With luck they were on their way someplace else. With a lot of luck.
It took so long before she heard the clop of hooves, she thought Fabian would surely become impatient and show himself. She still didn’t know why he’d decided to talk with the pastor in her absence.
Apron. Flinging it over her head, she then quickly tied off the straps and stopped to take in a calming breath. Five of them as expected. Ugly sons of bitches - again no surprise there. Carson had rarely allowed a free for all. Warrington lived life on a different level, even for a warlord. If they took her inside, she was in trouble.
Touching the knife in her pocket, she forced a smile to her face and stepped out to greet them. Two had already dismounted and were dunking their heads under the pump feeding the horse trough. The other three held back, talking among themselves. When she appeared, one of them nudged his neighbour and nodded her way. Her skin prickled at the smile forming on his colleague’s lips.
“If you’ve stopped by for water, be my guest,” she said wiping her hands on the apron. Don’t say anything that might be misinterpreted. Keep it business-like and don’t show any fear. These men fed off fear. “You from the camp?”
“On patrol, yes.” The leader peeled off his leather gloves and stuffed them into the pocket of his duster, casually revealing the hand-pistol holstered to his belt. A livid bruise marred one side of his face. A grey, beaded braid hung over one shoulder.
She folded her arms. “I already paid my protection, if that’s what you came for.”
“Didn’t come for no protection. Unless you need any extras, if you get my meaning?” Pushing back his hat, he stared at her like a man who could do what the hell he liked because there was no one to stop him. Behind him his colleague stood like a rock, thumbs tucked into a belt bristling with knife, chakram, knobkerrie. Heavy metal knuckle dusters adorned his massive fists. A shotgun and axe hung from his saddle. The three on horseback would be similarly adorned. They didn’t look as if they’d come to fight a girl.
“Someone’s been laying caltrops on the track east of the Grendel road.”
“Caltrops? Nasty.” She didn’t miss his discreet signal to the others to dismount. Stay calm, stay sharp.
“Know anything about that?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“Lamed one of the chief’s favourite mares. He’s madder than a fire-demon.”
“I can imagine.” All three dismounted, now. One wandering around the yard, taking a little too much interest in the barn, the other two drinking from the pump.
“You heard about the squawker? Friend of yours, so I believe.”
Finally getting to the point. “Haven’t left the farm in weeks. What’s up?”
Peering into the barn, now. Stay calm, Fabian. Just a routine check.
“Seer’s gone rogue, so it seems. When a man don’t come for his wife, something’s afoot.”
“You mean Hal? I don’t believe it. Not Hal. And Sunas?”
“Seems he’s been recruiting.”
She lifted a shoulder. “Never been interested in politics.” Behind him, the Ugly stood carved from stone, waiting for orders.
“Then the pastor took off in a mighty fine hurry and led us straight here.”
“Okay,” she said knowing she needed to give them something. He wasn’t buying her innocence. “He came to tell me about Sunas. Knows I’m friends with her. I sent him on his way. Whatever is going down, I don’t want to get involved.”
“Sensible lady.”
Bastard was undressing her with his eyes. Playing with her while she teetered on a knife-edge. He lifted his head at the sound of a dog howling somewhere in the house. Flicked his wrist once at Ugly who began to move at a lumbering pace towards the porch.
“Oh come-on, guys.” She didn’t dare block his way. Nor did she relish the tidy-up when they’d done wrecking her house. “You know me. I keep my head down and my hands clean. Pay my dues and support whoever’s in power.
The sound of crockery smashing. Three men gone, now. Two in the barn, one in the house.
“Thing is,” the leader continued in his ponderous voice, “Been watching the pastor for a few months now. Not as stupid as he looks, that man. Pitched in with young Janx just past solstice with some fool plan to take on Carson, so we learned, but Warrington got wind and got in first. Looks like Hal’s part of that group. And now the trail leads to you.”
Shit. Janx was little more than a dirt farmer and didn’t
have a hope in taking Warrington. The hell she was going down because of some fool sacred-book-bashing rebels who didn’t have a clue what they were doing.
Ugly emerged, a lump of bread in his fist, crock of grain spirit in the other. He took a deep slug and tossed it to the leader.
“Pastor’s a fool,” she said with genuine feeling. “And so is Janx if he thinks he can take Warrington and unite the gangs.”
The two in the barn still hadn’t emerged. Third just entering, looking for his colleagues. Anger lent her courage. The kind of anger that might well get her killed. Too strong a wind and even the most accommodating of reeds eventually snapped.
“I was married to Carson. He was good to me. Why would I plot against him?”
“That’s what Warrington would like to know. Says to invite you to dinner. But dinner isn’t till late, so we got a little time to kill.”
The suggestive hand on his belt said it all.
If she’d had condoms to spare, she might have done it. A shocking thought. What else could she do? Hope Fabian killed them all and then hope some more that he was ready for the big challenge? Three had gone into the barn, none as yet emerged. That didn’t bode well.
“Any other time I might have been tempted.” Rubbing her stomach, she hoped he’d take the hint. “Woman’s time, if you get my drift.”
“My experience, a woman’s sexier during her time.”
Flick of the thumb and the dragon’s head belt-catch snapped open. If not for Mr. Ugly breathing down her neck, she’d have used the knife and given it her best shot. Might get lucky with the leader, but the two of them? No.
“All right but not in the house. Don’t allow men in the house.” She started walking, knowing they’d follow, if only to drag her back. “In the barn. Let’s get it done.”
Ugly exchanged a quick glance with the leader. A few muttered words. Get them into the barn, Fabian would see to the rest. No chance of wielding a knife with her hands shaking like leaves in an autumn breeze. Next few moments they’d either be dead, or the vanguard in the latest gang war. If Fabian couldn’t take them, death looked like a good option.