by C A Nicks
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.
Someone threw her a rifle. Two men she didn’t know followed her out, armed and ready to defend her. The sense of purpose calmed her, sharpened her focus. For the first time, she saw it from the winning side and realised the choices were not so clear cut. Taking power was easy. Holding on to it without descending into tyranny? A thousand times harder.
A small gaggle of women stood at the gate, mothers, daughters, grandmothers. One held out a wound-up strip of pristine cloth, another a pot of salve. “Does he live?” one of the youngest said, almost timidly. “We thought these might help.”
Another came forward bearing a basket of new bread. “My tithe,” she said. “It goes to your man, now.”
Tig’s bodyguards closed in. She waved them back, sensing that the key to realising the dream was in the small voices, not the mighty roar of the crowd.
“Fabian will only accept that,” she said pointing to the bread, “If given freely as a gift. He’s here to free you, not enslave you.”
The woman nodded enthusiastically. “So he’s still alive? Thank god. I’d be honoured if he’d eat my bread.”
“Where’s he from?” another ventured. “He looks like no one I’ve ever seen.”
“How did you get mixed up with him, Tig? There were rumours of a coup, but we had no idea it would look like him.”
“One day I’ll tell the story,” Tig said, feeling goose-bumps prickling her arm. What a story it was. “And you can tell it to your children and they to theirs. But I will tell you this now. He values your loyalty more than gold. Take your gifts inside, I have someone to see.”
Let them come, one by one of their own free will. No better way to build a loyal army.
All except for one. The doctor. He was coming if she had to march him at gunpoint.
* * * *
He’d promised to stand and stand he would, though his world rocked and spun and his wounds hurt like the very fires of inferno. One of the dogs whined anxiously and licked his face. Placing his hand on the dog’s shoulder, Fabian used the animal as leverage and swung himself from the bed.
An unfamiliar room, the bed dark and ornate, the walls and flooring made of unstained wood. Fabian looked around for clothes and found only a robe of silver cloth strewn over a chair. It would have to do. Lifting it and sliding his arms into the sleeves drained him so much he had to sit down, sweat pouring from his face, to recover. Taking a deep breath, he tried again, holding the wall for support, groping his way to the door. Voices somewhere in the longhouse. Another few moments to regain his breath and then he grasped the door-latch and lifted it, almost losing his balance as the door swung open.
A short corridor with voices coming from a room at the end. A surprised youth, scrabbled to his feet, blushing deeply at being caught sitting when he should have been guarding. With a finger on his lips, Fabian ordered him to be silent. The youth complied with an enthusiastic nod and bowed, stammering out his apologies.
“Come,” Fabian said. “Lend me your shoulder. I will need your help. Get me to the end of the corridor and then stand back.”
“An honour, my lord.”
Together, they hobbled the length of the corridor like some aged four-legged beast.
“What’s your name, lad?”
“Taron, my lord.”
Fabian used some of his precious reserves to touch the youth’s hair, giving his blessing. “I will have need of loyal men like you, Taron. It means a lot.”
Taron nearly burst with pride right before him and hurried to open the door into a receiving room by the look of the ornate chair set on a raised dais. A man he didn’t recognise occupied the chair. To one side stood Hal, to the other Tig, both struggling to keep order in a room abuzz with people, gesturing and shouting, all trying to make their voices heard.
They fell silent, one by one as they noticed him filling the doorway. Now he had only to get himself across the room and into that chair without falling flat on his face. Tig’s eyes had grown as large as twin moons, a hint of reproach mingling with the respect that shone there. The crowd parted to let him through, each agonising step taking him nearer the dais. Fabian prayed for strength to climb the three steps to the newly-vacated chair. A bigger challenge right now than the steepest of mountains.
When finally he sat, with an inward sigh of relief, he looked down to find the whole throng on bended knee, heads lowered. A sight he’d thought never to see again.
“May I present Janx.” Hal introduced him to the lanky young man who would have taken on Warrington in order to better the lives of his people. Janx also fell to his knees in homage. Had he his ceremonial sword, Fabian would have honoured him with a title. When he could actually lift a sword, he would do just that.
“What are you doing out of bed?” Tig whispered. “You’re not strong enough.”
“They need to see me, Tig. Are they here to petition?”
“Petitions, judgements, you name it. Are you up to this?”
“I promised to stand and stand I will,” he said grasping her hand. “Stay close. And call in Taron. I like the lad and will take him as squire. Tell them to rise,” he said tilting his chin at the throng. “Call up the first.”
A young woman with a grievance against her neighbour. A stout gentleman asking the warlord for a new pig to replace one that had died. A couple seeking permission to marry. A complaint about the drainage. Routine worries he’d presided over down countless years. By the twentieth, Tig was flicking him worried glances and he was feeling like an old man in his dotage.
“Enough for today.” Hal spoke up where Tig would not. A cry of protest rose from those who hadn’t been seen. “Come back tomorrow,” he said firmly. “Your lord has done enough for one day.”
Silently, Fabian thanked the man. He would rest in the chair before attempting the journey back to bed. Closing his eyes, he waited for the crowd to disperse.
He must have slept for suddenly he was home again, in his favourite palace complete with music and the sound of running water, whole and well. A dream? Blinking, Fabian saw again the longhouse receiving room with its rough-hewn floor and swords and animal-head trophies hanging from the whitewashed walls. Tig let out a curse and in front of him a lone, grey-haired woman smiled a secret smile and snapped her fingers to bring him fully back.
Senna.
“We made an agreement, Lucimanticus. I’ve come to fulfil my part. I trust you’ve remembered yours. What you spent all those months wishing for? Now you have the means, I will grant you that wish.”
Beside him, Fabian heard the click of the rifle bolt. Tig’s voice brittle and sharp. “Hal, Janx, get her out of here. Go away, Senna. You’re not welcome.”
Temptation. Another human failing. He loved Tig with a passion he’d never imagined and yet the madjina’s offer had pierced him with a yearning more painful that his wounds. She could take him back, restore his lost glory. Tig bit her lip, noticing his indecision. The gun trembled in her hands.
“No,” he said. “Leave her. I would speak with her.”
Tig turned to him, unable to mask her shock at his words. “Fabian?”