Ecko Rising

by Danie Ware

  Tarvi moved. Pareus was a split second too slow.

  As the commander turned from the wall top, one threw itself at him, claws hooked in his cheek. Its weight dragged it downwards, slicing through soft skin, opening a second mouth in the side of the commander’s face. Dropping his sword, Pareus made a grab for it, but it hooked round him like a pet and ravened its teeth into his cheekbone.

  His face splintered under the force of its jaws.

  His eyes burning with pain, fury, outrage, he grabbed the thing and yanked it off him, taking half of his own face off with it. Bone shone white through a mask of gore.

  There was another one on his feet, and another.

  “Go,” he said. The word was barely recognisable. Astoundingly, he leaned down to pick up the sword and another one was on his wrist, his forearm. “Run! Now!”

  Tarvi was over the gore-smattered wall where Ecko had cleared the route.

  Ecko was going after her.

  As soon as he’d done one last thing.

  With a silent farewell to the commander, he exhaled his final breath of fire.

  17: REDLOCK

  ROVIARATH

  The man came out of the tavern to see three of them waiting for him.

  It was raining, rattling on the mica and soaking into worn wooden walls, rivulets of dirt ran down the roadway.

  He looked from face to face and said quietly, “Walk away.”

  “Never happen.” The biggest of the three grinned. “You owe him – and you know it.”

  The rain was warm on the man’s face. He rested his hands on the axeheads, shafts slung through twin rings at his belt.

  “I owe him shit,” he said. “Now walk. Away.”

  They went to grab him, force him up against the door.

  With a thumb flick and a double rasp, both axes were free. The heads were real white-metal, glistening grey in the rain. One swift sidestep buried them in the ribcage of the first. The second hit the dirt when a tight, laced-up boot slammed into his groin.

  The third, barely more than a lad, backed up, white faced, hands spread wide. The axeman planted his foot on the remnant of his attacker’s chest and yanked both axeheads free, dragging ribs and lungs out into the dirt. The man coughed, spluttered gore and died, his final gasp lost in the rain.

  The roadway was turning to mud.

  The second man lay on his side, knees up and hands clamped between his thighs. He was white to his lips, unable to stand.

  “Next time,” the axeman said. “Walk away when I tell you.”

  “Sure,” the lad mumbled. Carefully not looking at the corpse, not looking at it, he picked up his stricken mate, and the pair of them splashed away.

  “Idiots.” Redlock wiped both axes on the dead guy’s breeches, kicked him clear of the tavern door, and went back to his goblet.

  * * *

  Three doorways down, Triqueta of the Banned watched everything.

  Redlock had bootsteps that sent echoes through the grass – wherever he went, the Varchinde rippled at his presence. A curse of his reputation: he was an easy man to find.

  The scrabbling sprawl of the Great Fayre spread around two thirds of Roviarath’s city wall. The other third, facing south and west, stood over the riverside – watching the point where the three tributaries of the Great Cemothen River met and merged. Here, the water was white and wild, but a skilled barge commander would know the route about the banks to reach the city’s huge stretch of wharf.

  Many of the cargoes dropped here never made the city proper – they simply bled from the harbour’s edges straight into the Fayre, swelling it more with every return. Harsher than the marketplace, the harbour was savage and opportunistic; cruelty grew like salt whorls on the wood. Rumour muttered that the slave trade had also grown here – that those with no one to miss them would find themselves in the hands of the Kartian craftmasters, and that they would never see the light of day again.

  But surely that was only rumour.

  The Kartiah Mountains themselves seemed very close, here, huge and jagged dark. Rising harsh over the rattling planks of the harbourside, their great heads were too high to see, lost in the rain clouds. To the north and south, they folded gently into forested foothills, woven with a myriad streams. Here, they were like the wall that ended the world, fragmented into towering grey wind carvings. They were timeless, colossal and impossible stone creatures that stood silent guard over the plain.

  Only the seedy stretch of the harbour’s tumbledown buildings defended the city from their dark might.

  That – and Redlock.

  In the returns since Triqueta had seen him, he hadn’t changed – his garments were loose, battered and patched, his distinctive hair tied in a warriors’ knot. He bore no wealth, no evidence of his birth-rank – just the axeheads, acid etched and wickedly hooked. The story went he’d taken them from some road-pirate lord.

  He was still unarmoured, shockingly fast and hard hitting. Twin axes were an odd weapon choice – almost no defensive capability – but his brutal combat aggression was still as savage. He must be – what – forty-five returns? And there was no sign of his body slackening.

  Skidding past her down the road, his two assailants were speaking in tones of awe.

  “...Roken’ll do his nut!”

  “Roken!” The younger of the two was still shaking. “I’m more scared of the Mad Axeman!”

  His companion said darkly, “Looked pretty sane to me...”

  Still muttering, they tucked themselves under the buildings’ overhang, grimaced at the weather, and continued onwards through the ribbon-town.

  Triq waited until she could only hear the rain, then ducked out of the doorway and took a deep breath.

  Told herself sternly she wasn’t nervous. Nope. Not at all.

  Twisted in the muddy road, the corpse was already being picked over. The scavengers scuttled, hunched and dripping, out of her way.

  She bounced up the step, shook her wet hair, creaked open the door. Waited for her desert eyes to adjust to the poor light.

  Definitely not nervous.

  Before her, the room was worn: trade-road dust permeated every corner, stirring lazily with the draught. As the door closed, it drifted to settle on knife-scored tables and benches, on scattered, silent drinkers and a dirty, spit-stained floor.

  Redlock didn’t look up. He was alone, sat by the empty fireplace, bloodied and filthy boots on the table and cracked terhnwood goblet in hand. The sight of him sent a shock through her blood. She told herself sternly to ignore it. As her vision adjusted, she realised he looked older – more white lines at the corners of his eyes, more white threads through the knot of his hair.

  But he was still Redlock, solid, practical, square shouldered; road-worn skin creased by boyish humour. The sight of him thrilled and buoyed her.

  The lurker behind the bar grunted warily, eying her Banned leathers.

  “Came too late to help, then?”

  In the quiet room, the sentence was bright, brittle.

  She defied embarrassment with a chuckle.

  “Not that you needed any.”

  “Triq?” For a moment, he stared as if she were about to vanish – a Varchinde vision, a shimmer of sun. Then he dumped the goblet and grabbed her wrist, stood up to cover her in a huge hug and pound on her shoulder. “Gods’ teeth, what’re you doing in this dump?” He stood back, gripping her arms. “Let me look at you, mad wench. You don’t look any different. And those rocks are still damned ugly!”

  “I’ll kick your arse.” She shoved him affectionately, touched the gemstones in her cheeks. “I’m here looking for you – stuff you need to know.” She had no idea where to begin. “Sit yourself down, Red, you’ll need more wine.”

  The barkeep scuttled out with a faded skin. Redlock filled his goblet for her, took a swig from its neck.

  “Ack. Stuff tastes like piss.”

  “Probably is.” Triq grinned at him. “Pull up a bench, you oversized grunt – this is g
oing to take a while.”

  * * *

  It took a while.

  As Triq told, at last, how they’d brought Feren to Roviarath and what Larred Jade’s response had been, Redlock was elbows on the table, hand on his forehead shielding his eyes.

  It was dark when she was finally done. Tallow candles gave grey smoke and bad light, two empty wineskins lay shrivelled on the tabletop.

  Triq laid a slender, sunshine hand on his muscled forearm. “You okay?”

  “Thinking.” For a moment, Redlock didn’t move. Then he looked up at her from under his brows, his expression stone sober, his mouth a dangerous line. “Feren died?”

  “Jade tried everything.”

  “Then we go straight for the Monument.” His decision was absolute. “We’ll scout the ground and locate the creature – whatever the rhez it is.”

  “What, now?” Triq chuckled at him. “I only just got here!”

  “First light.” He wasn’t laughing. “The horse I’ve got’s solid, he’ll run. If you look after him and we don’t stop, we’ll do the Monument in – what – two days?”

  “He’s not a Banned horse, Red, you’ll run him into the ground.” Triq snorted. “This monster –”

  “Is history.” His expression was grim, brown eyes glittering in the candlelight. “You offed two of them, how much bigger’s this one? We can take him, no worries. The mares’ll scatter – you know that – shouldn’t be too hard for the soldiers to mop them up.” He flicked an eyebrow and grinned, sharp as an axe-edge. “And I guess we’d better find Feren’s teacher while we’re at it.”

  “You’re crazed.” No, he hadn’t changed. He was resolute, forthright – a man with no concept of “impossible”. She grinned at him, shaking her head. Candlelight reflected from the stones in her cheeks. “You and I?” she asked. “By ourselves?”

  “You’re damned right ‘by ourselves’ – don’t want your noisy lot messing it up.” He laid his callused hand along her jaw, gently turned her to look at him. “I’ve known Feren since he was a knee-biter. When he was five, I made him an axe with a soft leather head – he and my daughter Raevan used to play ‘road-pirates’ round the orchards.” The touch was gentle, but his insistence fierce. “Jade’s a smart bastard.”

  “I’m coming with you, bet your life on it,” she told him. “That monster’s huge. Feren said it was terrifying.”

  He flickered a smile, and his thumb stroked her cheek. “So am I.”

  For a moment, they were eyes on eyes, breathless, waiting.

  Heart suddenly thumping, she turned into his hand, kissing the skin of his palm. When he didn’t move, she slipped her mouth around the tip of his thumb and ran her lips and tongue over him, her eyes catching his with a mischievous gleam.

  “So are you, it seems.” He watched her with a half smile. “You’re not a girl any more.” She bit him, taking mock offence and he laughed. He came round beside her on the bench, watched her expression for a moment, then gathered her into his lap, turning to kiss her with a strength and sensuality she remembered – Oh Gods – all too well.

  She kissed him in return, wrapped her arms round his neck. Felt him harden like a promise under her buttock.

  “Good to see you again,” she said, grinning.

  “You’re a madwoman,” he told her. “Why didn’t Larred Jade muster?”

  “Why do you think?”

  He chuckled, kissed her again, briefly. “He’s a mercenary bastard and we both know he’s using me. Us.”

  “Red...” Self-conscious now, she pulled away from him. “Feren was your blood...”

  “And I’ll fight for him willingly – and Larred Jade damned well knows it.” He grinned. “That monster’s going to be horse steak by the time I’ve finished with it. Then I’ll be having a little word with the Roviarath CityWarden.”

  She moved in his lap, relieved. “I don’t doubt it.”

  “You shouldn’t,” he said softly. “After all, the old sod knew what he was doing when he sent you to find me.” His lips brushed her cheek. “Like I could say no to you.”

  “Let’s face it, who can?” Chuckling impishly, she pulled him closer, kissed him again, felt the gentle growl of appreciation though his skin, his mouth. He buried his hands in her hair and kissed her back – hard, eager.

  Anticipation thrilled sparks in her blood – she remembered how good he felt, over her, under her. She’d once ridden him so hard he’d begged, laughing, for mercy... then he’d slid his hands beneath her buttocks and pushed upwards into her, not stopping until she’d come, and come, abandoned and wild, head back, hands in her hair...

  For a moment, he pulled back, the lines round his eyes crinkled in a grin.

  “So,” he said softly, “You’re staying here tonight?”

  “Uh-huh.” She shifted her weight until she was astride him, facing him, pressed hard down and into him, her agile fingers teasing out the warriors’ knot in his hair. “Unless you had other plans?” Her raised eyebrow said it all.

  “Hardly.” He pulled her closer, murmuring again at the pliancy of her body, the strength in the grip of her thighs. His thumbs brushed her nipples, hard against the inside of her garments.

  She shivered, her back arched, her hips pressed forwards in a motion that made him catch his breath.

  He kissed her again, his loose hair tangling round her fingers. Expectation smouldered – spiced by long returns of waiting. Gods, he felt good.

  The barkeep, standing over them, coughed pointedly and held out a drop-key.

  Redlock grinned. Triq was off his lap and key in hand, beaming shamelessly at a red-faced taproom, all eying their boots. Stopping long enough to pick up another skin of wine, they headed for his room, laughing like a pair of overgrown ’prentices.

  * * *

  The sun rose over the plainland, light slowly flowing eastwards from the grey and glittering sea.

  Somewhere beneath the grass, perhaps in the very grass itself, the Elemental Powerflux of the world was awakening. Fire had roared from sky, burned grass and terhwnood and flesh. And where there was flame, so ash and death had followed.

  But in this place, the grass was green, heads of windflowers bright scatterings of colour. The sun lit the dark hides of two chearl, standing picketed by a single basher, tiny under the blowing clouds of the dawn.

  The creatures slept standing up, the campsite around them quiet. They flicked their ears, their great chests rumbled at their dreams.

  Ecko awoke to rain, pattering gently on the stretched-taut fabric over his head.

  Beside him, a curled female shape was quietly shaking. It took him a moment to focus, then he understood. Her hands over her face, Tarvi was curled around her horror, turned away from him and twisted in pain under her bedroll.

  Crying for Pareus, for her patrol perished to the last man and woman.

  They’d been no more than kids, for chrissakes.

  They’d been so much code, mathematically generated from his previous decisions.

  They’d died with courage, and screaming.

  Pareus...

  Jesus fucking shit.

  Unsure – almost embarrassed – Ecko turned onto his back, watched the rain running down the tent sides. Pareus’s death was haunting him, and he had no fucking idea what he was supposed to do about any of it... When his sisters had turned on the waterworks, it was because they’d wanted something – attention, influence...

  But the image of the tan commander, picking up his sword with half his fucking face hanging off... it was burned into Ecko’s forebrain like a brand.

  Real or not, the boy’s death mattered.

  It hurt, like the loss of a friend.

  Carefully, he untangled the bedrolls, curled himself about Tarvi’s back. He didn’t speak – had no idea what he’d say – but his arm went over her and he brought her against his steelwire chest, his bare skin mottled the dark brown-grey of the tent fabric.

  Now, she was really crying. Horror held in ti
ght control was flooding out of her: gulping, wracking grief. She shook against him, her body soft and warm. She’d stripped down to her shift; he could feel her breast against his arm, her hair in his face, her buttocks soft in his lap.

  Sternly, he asked himself what the hell he thought he was doing.

  His reaction to her closeness was inevitable. His embarrassment redoubled, he tried to control it, held tight to panic... This was outside his experience, it’d been too long: he wasn’t the same person, physically, chemically, as the Tamarlaine Benjamin Gabriel who’d had the faintest fucking clue what to do with a woman...

  With her this close, he was fifteen years old, for chrissakes, elated and guilty and wondering where exactly he was supposed to put his hands?

  She nestled back against him, her sobs subsiding. Her softness in his lap was just too good – he knew he had to pull away but he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Somewhere in the back of his head, his own savage cynicism lashed at him – You want affirmation? Wanna feel alive? Yeah, well feel this! – but he barely dared breathe in case she moved.

  Her hand reached backwards, stroked his hip, pulled him closer. His mottle-skin shivered at the touch, its colours now blending with hers. He was pushed right between her buttocks and straining at the light fabric of his pants.

  Disbelief bounced somewhere between his head and his groin. This so couldn’t be happening...

  She found the waistband, pushed them down, lifted the light fabric of her shift... and she was there, naked, warm, soft, wanting. He was so hard against her skin and finally, finally daring to move his hand to cup the breast so teasingly close.

  She caught her breath, held his hand in place with her own.

  As she turned her shoulders, he could see her profile, outlined against the lightening tent. Her mouth was open, her breathing becoming shallow. With a deft, easy twitch, she moved herself against him and rested the head of his cock against her outer lips.

  Oh. Fucking. Hell.

  Warning sirens screamed through Ecko’s head. He couldn’t do this, he so couldn’t do this – He’d given it up willingly when Mom’d remade him, he’d no fucking idea what that kind of adrenaline would do to his system...