Fallen

by Tim Lebbon

  THE STORM HID them from threats, but seemed to bring dangers closer. Rain fell vertically, splashing from the ground to create a mist of water around their horses' hooves, dirt and muck rising and muddying their legs. Lightning flashed; thunder cracked. They both wore the heavy leather groundsheets from their tents that doubled as cloaks, and much of the water ran off, but not all. It found its way down Ramus's neck and through his trousers, until he was cold, wet and shivering. Such discomfort did not concern him, however. For now the storm brought only water, but Ramus waited for the impacts of something heavier.

  He watched Lulah's back as they rode, and he was somewhere else, a blank place of thought where possibilities collided and coalesced into things beyond belief.

  He knew of people who disbelieved magichala. They were fools and he told them so, because it was simply the arcane knowledge of plants and roots, dust and rain, and such things seemed impossible to those who lacked such insight.

  But now . . .

  That was no trick, he thought. I saw what I saw. And when I fell yesterday the dust of dead flies was upon me, turned to stone by my nightmare mutterings. And Lulah, stern Lulah, she did not hear exactly what I was saying. She was too far away. But if she had come to see, brought close by my rantings? She would not know the words, but neither did the flies or the beetle. I could not fashion a sword, yet one could kill me despite my ignorance.

  Magic, Ramus thought. Widow, I have touched the magic you so covet. And yet he was still not sure. Was this magic, elusive and unknown, a myth with no histories to back it up? Or simply another form of magichala? Perhaps those that dwelled on the Divide performed their own magichala, permitted by nature and the land but known by few.

  The more Ramus mused upon it, the less the differences seemed to matter.

  He felt those words engraved in his mind, like the prayers carved on the stone temples to the Sleeping Gods.

  THE WHOLE DAY was dark, and dusk seemed a long time coming. They passed across the Steppes and encountered no problems, though Ramus felt watched every step of the way. He saw no one, and Lulah claimed to be unconcerned, but the rain felt like a weak barrier against who- or whatever observed them. At one point there were slugs and snapes falling with the rain, and they brushed the sticky creatures from each other's capes. But for now, nothing dangerous fell.

  And in his sickening mind, Ramus sensed the monstrous attention of something nonhuman. The cancer was a weight behind his eyes, and this was a void inside his mind, an area of nothingness that he could never possibly know. How can it truly be sleeping if it sees me from afar? he wondered. He shook his head, tasted the raindrops and wondered whether the parchment pages were affecting him more than he knew.

  Late that afternoon, Lulah stopped and waited for him to draw level. She rode beside him, neither of them looking at each other, and he felt the weight of expectation bear down heavier than the torrential rain.

  “We're being followed,” she said at last. “Don't turn around and don't speak.”

  How do you know? he wanted to ask, but it was a foolish question. The Serians spent much of their time hunting things that wanted only to eat them. He knew that Lulah's senses could see and hear through such simple stuff as rain.

  “When I fall back, ride hard,” she said, and without giving him a chance to ask questions, she turned her horse and galloped back the way they had come.

  Ramus kneed his mount and lifted himself from the saddle. He squinted against the rain as his horse first trotted, then galloped ahead, veering left around a large outcrop that loomed from the gloom, heading down into a gulley that carried a shallow flood, crossing the stream and riding up the other side. Even in this weather, he knew that a good tracker could follow, but if he lost hoofprints in streams, floods and marsh, then perhaps he could shake whoever pursued them.

  Pain thudded in behind his eyes, perhaps aggravated by the sudden increase in his heartbeat. Not now, he thought. Not now! He listened for the sounds of fighting: metal on metal, the thudding of hooves. But he heard only the rain and the sounds of his own flight.

  Be safe, Lulah, he thought, and he imagined the father of her dead friend taking her eye.

  He climbed from the shallow gulley and the plains stretched before him, with little cover other than a few scattered trees. He paused for a moment, looked back the way he had come in the hope of seeing Lulah following him. But she was not there. I should go back, he thought. If the marauders have been stalking us . . .

  But if this was marauders, then at least Lulah could be giving him a chance to escape.

  He waited there a moment longer, then started across the Steppes. The rain was heavier than ever, and at times it felt as though he was traversing the bed of a deep sea. He passed a huge rock, veering aside in case someone or something was hiding in its shadow. Half a mile farther on, he paused beside a burial mound, letting his horse snort and foam into the rain, feeling the thumping of its heart through his legs. The pain behind his head was constant now, but he willed it down. Stay away, he thought. Just for a while, stay away. At least it blanked out the other thing he had felt in there.

  Ramus was confused. Should he remain here, waiting for Lulah to come and find him? Should he go on? If so, how far ahead? He didn't want to lose her, and if she'd been mistaken and there was no one following them, she would be looking for him.

  His doubt seemed to seep down to his mount. The horse started snorting and stomping its feet, raising splashes of mud.

  “Steady,” Ramus said, patting the animal's back, but he had never been close to horses. Not like the Serians. Not like Nomi, who seemed to have a special empathy with the creatures. “Steady.”

  He heard something beyond and behind the rain, and immediately he knew that Lulah was dead.

  Horses, coming his way fast and unflinching. Whoever rode them was not being cautious.

  Ramus hauled on the reins and kicked at his horse's ribs, but it remained motionless, snorting and foaming at the mouth, eyes wide. “Come on!” he shouted, his voice drowned in the rain.

  He could see three horses coming his way. They were following the exact route he had taken, and he wondered how they could see his trail in such terrible weather.

  If they're marauders I could buy them off, he thought. But he had no money, and if they were marauders Lulah would have already taken them on. Who knew how many there had been before she met them? They'd be in no mood for bargaining.

  It was too late to fight.

  Where are you now? he thought, and it was the first time in his life he'd issued anything like a prayer, to anything like the Sleeping Gods.

  He dismounted, drew his pitiful knife and darted behind the cairn. At least if he hid he might be able to surprise one of them.

  Where are you now, if you really want me to find you?

  “Ramus?” a voice shouted.

  Lulah!

  “Ramus, nothing to fear.”

  Still holding the knife, he stepped from behind the rock. The three horses were thirty steps away, and he could already make out Lulah on the lead beast. The other two bore Konrad and Ramin, the big man's face split into a grin, rainwater dripping from his teeth like the blood of the sky.

  “Ramus,” Konrad said, his voice quiet yet carrying through the storm. “Put the knife away or you'll prick yourself.”

  THEY FOUND AN overhang on one side of the cairn, and it sheltered them from the weather. Until the four of them were seated and a fire was lit, the subject of why Ramin and Konrad were here was successfully avoided.

  “Ceyrat tea,” Ramin said. “That's what we all need right now.” While he brewed it, Ramus tried to catch Lulah's attention. But she was not looking at him. She stared at her feet, a worried frown creasing her features.

  “Nomi sent you,” Ramus said.

  “Of course,” Konrad said.

  “Or maybe we decided to come and join you?” Ramin said, but Ramus saw that he was joking. A cruel joke, perhaps.

  “No,” Ramu
s said. “She sent you. And as she's killed me already, I assume it was not for that.”

  “We're not mercenaries,” Konrad said. He stared at Ramus as if challenging him to disagree.

  “Then you came for the pages,” Lulah said. “Nomi sent you to track us and take those parchment pages from Ramus.”

  Konrad smiled tightly and nodded.

  Nobody spoke. Ramin continued brewing the tea, and soon the sweet smell filled the air. The rain fell in a torrent from the overhang, loud and unremitting. When the tea was ready they presented their cups and Ramin poured, careful not to spill a drop. They each sipped, and Ramus felt its immediate effect chase tiredness from his muscles and sharpen his eyes.

  “You can't have them,” he said, and the atmosphere changed instantly.

  “After brewing you such a nice drink, I think you'd at least consider our place in this,” Ramin said.

  “You have no place. You're Nomi's soldiers, and she's sent you after me for something she cannot have.”

  “Are you a soldier, Ramus?” Konrad asked.

  “You know I'm not. But you also know I was ready to fight you three when I thought you were marauders.”

  “We're not here to fight you,” Ramin said. “Either of you.” He glanced at Lulah but she was still looking at her boots.

  Ramus dropped his cup, stood, pulled his knife and backed against the rock. He felt the backpack pressed between him and the stone. To get the parchment pages, they would have to come through him.

  “Serians don't fight one another,” Lulah said. She stood slowly, no real threat in her movements.

  Ramin and Konrad remained seated, but Ramus recognized the look in their eyes. They were ready.

  “They don't,” Konrad said, “and they won't. Stay aside, Lulah.”

  “You threaten me, Konrad?”

  The scarred warrior sighed and put down his cup.

  “Because you have to threaten me, both of you. If Ramus does not wish to give up the parchment pages, I have to support him in that.”

  “You'd stand between us?” Ramin asked.

  Lulah took three steps and turned her back on Ramus, so close that he could smell her wet hair. Answer enough, he thought.

  Konrad stood now, the two sides facing each other across the fire. No one but Ramus had drawn a weapon, but the false casualness with which they had been drinking their tea was now gone. Their faces were the masks of fighters, and they gave away nothing.

  “They can't have them,” Ramus whispered, just loud enough for Lulah to hear.

  “You think we have any choice?” she said out loud. Ramin and Konrad glanced from her to Ramus and back again.

  “We can stand like this all night,” Ramin said. He took a step closer to the fire.

  Ramus tensed, clasping the knife tighter in his hand.

  “Just getting out of the rain,” Ramin said. Water glistened on his dark skin and ran from his long hair. “It's running down my back. Uncomfortable. But I don't mind, Ramus. I'm strong. Really, we can stand here all night.”

  Ramus's breath came faster and lighter, and he felt the beginnings of panic. Lulah was right: What choice did they have? But he had so much work left to do on the parchments—he had read some of it, and seen what it could do, and what more would there be? What other wonders from beyond the Noreela that was known?

  The stone was cool at his back now, its cold pressing through the backpack and soaking into his flesh. Beyond the stone, inside . . . ? He had never been into one of these cairns, because they were unique to the Pavissia Steppes, and this was as far south as he had ever come. Perhaps now was the time to expand his horizons.

  He rested his forehead on Lulah's right shoulder and whispered, knowing that the rain and fire would hide his words from the two men. “A dozen beats,” he said. “Give me that if you can.” And then he ran.

  He did not look back. If he did he could stumble, or he would see what he so did not wish to see. So he ran blind, scraping his shoulder around the roughly circular base of the caim. He gasped at the sudden shock of rain as he emerged from the overhang, but kept on running.

  He heard shouting behind him, and the harsh hiss of swords being drawn. Lulah roared, loud as a female mountain wolf protecting her young from a rogue male. Ramin and Konrad growled something back, someone hit the ground, more loud voices in argument and then conflict . . . but Ramus did not hear metal on metal. Don't fight, he thought. He did not want Lulah's death on his conscience.

  He circled around another quarter of the cairn, then searched for hand- and footholds. Water was pouring down the structure's outer skin, and where moonlight lit silvery splashes against protuberances he found the purchase points he wanted. He climbed quickly, scaling the sloping wall of the mound, scrabbling with hands and feet and trying not to make too much noise. A dozen steps higher and the wall sloped in toward the top of the cairn. He began to crawl.

  Let it be here, he thought. Moss and grass sprouted from cracks and joints in the stone below him, and when he reached the highest point of the curved roof he found the entrance hole he was searching for. It was covered by a thin mat of heather, but he tore through into the darkness below and knew that no one had been inside for a long, long time.

  He lay there for a while, looking all around and fearing that he'd see Ramin or Konrad appear over the edge of the cairn at any moment. He still heard shouted threats and curses down below, but now he could only hear one male voice.

  She's keeping one of them occupied, he thought. But she can't take on two.

  With another glance around he lowered himself into the cairn.

  He was trying to remember everything he had read about these places. There were hundreds scattered all across the Pavissia Steppes, the tombs of important tribal leaders from long ago. Most of them had steps leading down from the uppermost entrance, and Ramus supported himself on his elbows as he felt around with his feet. There! His memory was good.

  They would come down after him, of course. But he had not come here to hide.

  It was completely dark inside the cairn. Ramus could not see his hand before his eyes. There were thirteen steps and then the flat floor, a gravelly surface that allowed the rainwater to soak down into the ground. It smelled of age and forgotten things, and it was almost silent, as though the burial structure had no concern with today's world. Even the wraiths here were too ancient to make themselves known.

  He walked forward with his hands held out before him, still trawling his memory for more facts. Voyagers had been into some of these places, and though the constructions, shapes and sizes were often similar, the contents were vastly different. Built by different tribes and clans, a huge variety of beliefs were displayed in the way their Chieftains and holy people were buried.

  Ramus felt his way along a wall which soon ended in an open area. He squatted and moved on, shuffling his feet and reaching out to sense whatever was before him.

  This place is for the dead, he thought. His head thumped in a sudden wave of pain and he slipped to the side, reaching out to prevent himself from sprawling to the floor. In this darkness, light burned behind his eyes, but it was a false light of agony. He groaned, then felt something curved and smooth beneath his hand. A skull. There was no mistaking it. And something moved in its eye socket, something wet and round, an incorruptible eyeball seeing him in the dark and marking him. . . .

  Ramus cried out and pulled back his hand. A grub, he thought. An insect, a blind rodent. Something alive, not long dead. Don't be a pissing fool.

  A noise came from behind him, deadened by the thick stone wall. He recognized it as feet slipping on the wet steps that led down. So here it comes, he thought, and he closed his eyes and began to concentrate. His breathing became slow, he shoved the irrational fear of the dead from his mind, the sound of rainwater flowing down the entrance steps seemed even farther away, his shivering ceased as he found warmth in the darkness—and then the words were in his head, waiting to be spoken.

  I canno
t, he thought, but the knowledge was brash and insistent.

  I should not, he thought, but events had created enemies for him. And even then, contemplating what may be murder, Ramus believed in the greater good.

  “Ramus?” a voice said. It was a whisper, respectful rather than afraid. He could not tell whether it was Konrad or Ramin, but that mattered little.

  “Leave me alone,” Ramus said. “I don't want to hurt you.”

  The Serian slid across the floor, the noise of his movement echoing briefly from the walls and confusing Ramus. He turned left and right, unsure now where the man stood. He could be directly before him, and if he reached out his hand . . .

  “I don't want to hurt you,” Ramus said again, softer this time, more heartfelt.

  “Nomi wants what is hers,” the voice said. The cramped, flat tones inside the cairn hid the identity of whoever had come down after him.

  “They're no use to her,” Ramus said.

  “I don't care,” the Serian responded. “I'm here until I find you. I'm here until I have those pages. If that means my sword is stained, then so be it.”

  Ramus closed his eyes and it was no darker. He sighed. His mind felt full, ready to spew what he knew.

  “Nomi said—”

  Ramus spoke the words. They sounded just as unfamiliar as the last time he had uttered them, and equally unwelcome in his mouth. As the final word trailed off the darkness seemed to sigh.

  “What's that?” the Serian shouted. “What speaks? What shouts?” Ramus heard movement to his left and there was a brief shower of sparks as metal slashed against stone. “Away!” the man shouted. “Come no closer! Ramus, run!”

  It was those last two words that made Ramus close his eyes and hold his face, as if to clasp the pain pulsing behind his eyes.

  The Serian shouted again, a word that turned into a pained, disbelieving growl, and then fell to the floor. More sparks came as he swept his sword left and right, and all they illuminated was the stark, wide-open eyes that held a dark fear that nothing could illuminate.