Fallen by Tim Lebbon Page B

path leading down the hillside, Ramus could see people moving around, and closer to the first of the stables, a group of horses was tethered. They were big animals with long manes, and tails that almost swished the ground, ranging in color from dark brown to a light, sandy yellow. Cantrassan horses: tough, dependable and expensive. He hoped that this was a sign of Nomi's preparations.
    He started down the hill, already feeling the sore spots on his shoulders where the backpack rubbed. Getting old, he thought. He blinked, his vision blurring for an instant before resolving itself again. Sometimes he forgot about his sickness and believed he really would grow old.
    Going downhill felt good. Beyond the stables, past the small wood that sprang from the fertile ground at the hill's base, he could see the rolling land that led south and east toward the Pavissia Steppes. The border was less than a hundred miles in that direction, guarded by a series of outposts that were manned by the Chieftains' men. Beyond were the wilds, and Ramus suddenly craved that freedom with every heartbeat. Now that the voyage had begun, he wanted to be in the thick of it. He had always hated those first couple of days, moving across lands that were mapped, through settlements known and named. It was a false start.
    He hummed to himself, an old Cantrassan song he often heard in the taverns down by the river, and the first he knew about the man shadowing him was when a knife pressed to his throat.
    “Keep still and quiet and you'll see the sunset,” the voice said.
    Ramus did as he was told. He did not know the voice, though he knew the sharp accent, the words quick and clipped. Mancoserian.
    “Down on your knees.”
    Ramus knelt and felt his weapon roll pulled away, untied and rolled out.
    “Going for a long walk, eh?”
    “A ride,” Ramus said. “With Nomi Hyden.”
    “And who'll you be?”
    “Ramus Rheel.”
    The man behind him grunted, not without humor. “Good enough. Up, then, so I can introduce myself.”
    Ramus turned as he stood, and smiled. “I know you already,” he said. “Nomi's talked about you.”
    “Beko Havison,” the big Serian said. He held out his hands, and Ramus grabbed them.
    “Good travels,” Ramus said.
    “Let's hope so, eh? So we're to work together at last, on this voyage that isn't.”
    “Oh, it's a voyage, believe me. Just because the Guild isn't involved—”
    Beko waved his hand. “They're a bunch of old pissers, though they do have money.”
    “They have purpose too,” Ramus said. “Don't discard them entirely. So, has Nomi told you where we're going?”
    “She has, though none of my Serians know yet. She suggested it should be kept quiet.”
    Ramus looked at the soldier and decided that he already liked him. Most Serians he found gruff and serious, and he still found their tradition of studding their leather tunics with a metal star for each kill troubling. Beko had many stars and carried an array of weaponry, but he seemed good-natured. And Ramus could read character well enough to know that it was not just eagerness to please.
    “They can know soon enough. Once we're away from Marrakash, everyone can know.”
     
    NOMI WAS THERE already. When Ramus held out his hands to wish her good journeys, she brushed them aside and hugged him hard. For a heartbeat he did not respond, but then he returned the gesture.
    “These are great times,” she whispered in his ear.
    All great times are painted in blood. But he smiled and nodded, and when she let go he had a chance to look around at their team.
    Beko and five other Serians were helping Pancet's men load their gear on the horses. There was a mount for each of them, and two shorter, stockier packhorses with thick legs and wide bodies to carry their loads. The Serians had selected a horse each and were standing close by, some of them whispering to their mounts as they loaded their gear. Ramus saw weapon rolls everywhere, and each Serian was already dressed