Ecko Rising

by Danie Ware

  The creature was laughing. In and out of focus, it swam in the grey air.

  The hand caught her by the throat. Squeezed, crushed. She coughed, gasped, struggled to breathe. With half-panicked determination, she hacked one serrated blade viciously at the creature’s inner wrist. Fighting to inhale, she dragged it through flesh, into bone.

  It ripped, rasped, tore chunks from skin and muscle.

  Then it shattered, terhnwood splinters stinging at the creature’s arm – and at her own.

  The beast spat ferocity, threw Triq back against her saddle; clamped the injured arm in its hand. Blood pumped through its fingers. It gave ground. Her head hammering with pain, rain streaming from her skin, Triq threw herself forwards and rammed the remaining blade, point first, into the pool of stark shadow under its arm.

  This time, she made it scream.

  * * *

  For a moment, Redlock stood silent, the huge beast reared over him.

  Then he moved, hard, fast, focused. He lunged forwards, slammed both axes into its soft belly.

  And slashed them downwards.

  The impact jarred his elbows, he felt them hack – cutting deep, flesh parting before steel. The beast juddered, screamed. As he heaved the blades free, he was up to his elbows in gore.

  Intestines spilled from twin wounds, hitting his shoulders, sliding down his chest, staining him with the creature’s death.

  As it crashed back to the ground, he dove sideways and heard one foreleg crack.

  It buckled, but still didn’t fall. Its claws were catching its own sliding guts, they dragged, filth covered, through the muddy grass.

  Yet it laughed, manically, vicious humour across the downpour.

  “You want to stop me, warrior? You think you can?”

  With a grim twist to his mouth, Redlock hit a low crouch and slammed one axe into its rear leg, just above the dewclaw. The second axe followed it, this one into the slender bones below its knee.

  Its leg shattered. It faltered, staggered.

  It plunged away from him, reeling, trying to turn. It was slipping on grass soaked in blood, tangling itself in its own viscera.

  What the rhez did it take to kill this thing?

  A second, vicious double blow, ribs breaking under the impact.

  Another.

  It was faltering, now, trying to get away from his relentless onslaught. Its hide was matted with rain and blood and fluid, its intestines were spilling from it like uncoiling rope. Its eyes were wild, terrible; its breath ragged. It half turned, raised the bow as if to strike...

  And it started to shake.

  The muscles in its legs were quivering. It staggered, just for a second, righted itself.

  But Redlock was still moving.

  Holding hard to his lunch, he ducked sideways through the wall of grass and came up before it with both axes gripped centre-shaft – ready.

  He heard the scream that came from the creature Triqueta was fighting...

  ...but the stallion was still going.

  A final, desperate effort.

  It rode him down.

  * * *

  Ecko’s boosting was running out.

  He was coming down, shivering with aftershock. His belly was twisting round that familiar, hollow sense of loss.

  The beast was searching for him. It was lurching painfully, claws raking, hands reaching into the grass. Its face – how did it manage to look so fucking girlie? – was twisted round hurt and savagery and suspicion.

  And without his supercharged strength and speed, he’d got nothing that’d touch it – no weapon, no flamer, fucking sod all. What was he supposed to do – bite it to death?

  He wondered what’d happened to Tarvi – she still had her spear, her bow. Unable to come up with anything any more creative, he loosed his Bogeyman breathing: wet, dank, rotting. And he kinda hoped the beast had read the comic books.

  It turned, its shattered knee twisting, but it was sharp as a hunter, seeking the sound through the rain.

  “I can hear you,” it said. “Kartian creature – like us, created. Better than born!”

  “Make that ‘upgraded’.” His voice came from behind it. As it spun, he was off through the grass, heading low and swift for the lifeless black wall of the bank.

  Weapons. He needed weapons. He’d sell his fucking soul right now for a carbon-fibre blade and a couple of spools of monowire...

  “You think?” The creature whirled, straining to see. “Better than we?”

  “You betcha ass –” The taunt ended in a clumsy exclamation as his stealth-cloak caught in the grass, a sudden line of tension across his throat.

  Fuck!

  The creature wasn’t as dumb as it looked – it homed in on the sound instantly. A hefty yank didn’t free him – the fucking Bogeyman’s luck was deserting him. It was too strong to tear, too complicated to unfasten. He tugged at it again.

  Harder.

  Nothing.

  “Now, I see you, shadow-creature!”

  It was behind him, right over him, its claws gouging angry chunks out of the soil.

  He heard the other one scream as the horsewoman’s blade slammed home; he saw the rising rear of the wounded stallion, saw the axeman fighting, weapons in hand. Saw him go down, churned beneath the beast’s claws.

  Holy shit...

  Then the horizon exploded.

  * * *

  What the rhez...?

  Triqueta saw the light from the Monument rise, saw it burn with yellow nacre as the stones caught alight, blazing into the clouded sky. The clouds returned the glare, their underbellies burned with furious shades of flame.

  The air grew tight; she couldn’t breathe.

  The injured beast was grappling for her, trying to seize her wrists, her hair – anything to drag her out of the saddle. She ripped her serrated blade free of its flesh and slashed, barged, driving it back.

  It was weakening, starting to falter.

  The light swelled, dancing into the sky in great, leaping waves of colour that played over and above the swollen grey clouds. Where they parted, the air was burning. It wasn’t fire – it had no heat – it was pure, raw elemental power, leaping from the broken Monument into the covering storm.

  As her own foe fell, she saw Redlock go down under the claws of the stallion.

  * * *

  He didn’t understand how the beast could still be fighting.

  It was on him, a blur of legs and claws and trailing guts that tumbled him into cold soil and thick grass.

  Horses wouldn’t trample – unless they were trained, or had no choice. This thing was different: those damned claws were huge and it was going to shred him meat from bone.

  He tried to break sideways, get out from underneath it – but the claws were everywhere, slamming down beside him. One came down on his booted foot and he snarled, slashed the axe clean through the leg muscle.

  He tasted blood as it sprayed his lips. He rolled clear.

  Just as Triqueta and the mare crashed into the beast’s flank, then spun and thumped it with both horse heels. It staggered, caught its claw in a reel of spilling intestine and staggered again.

  With one almighty sweep, shouting wordless into the storm, Redlock smashed its other foreleg.

  Tangled in its own spewing life, it fell.

  And the sky above it was burning.

  * * *

  Ecko saw the centaur stallion crash to the ground, heard the injured mare scream denial. He saw the horizon aflame, saw the Borealis screaming through clouds, lighting their darkness to fantastical colour. Memories of dreams, memories of memories – fire raining from the sky.

  But there was still one of these bastard things right over him, her face twisted with hate, her hands reaching through the grass, one huge claw raised to snatch his head straight off his cloak-caught shoulders.

  His boosting was down: he was exhausted, nauseous. His targeters tracked the assault even as they plotted the trajectory to roll away. His muscles f
ired, spasmed – his tank was fucking empty, he had nothing left.

  Through the rain, he thought he heard Tarvi calling him as she had once before.

  “Ecko! Ecko!”

  That fucking claw was huge.

  Then a blinding concussion knocked him backwards, a sizzling flare that seared his skin. He caught the reek of burned meat as he fell, twisted awkwardly by the caught cloak. His anti-daz iris-flickered, he could still see...

  ...see the black and smoking shell of the centaur mare, legs twisted, cracking sticks, the ground around it blasted. At the edges of the strike, the grass burned under the rain.

  And the sky...!

  The clouds were alight, pulsing waves of colour played under and through them. The Monument blazed like a burning building, waves of fire leapt between sky and stone. The injured mare was racing away, dodging side to side as the clouds roiled with fury.

  The stallion was struggling to right itself, but the axeman was right in its fucking face.

  “You move, you’ll get one of these up each nostril. You hear me?”

  The grass was burning in patches, tiny bonfires, rising smoke.

  “Ecko!” Uncaring of the majesty, the destruction overhead, uncaring of the fires under her feet, Tarvi raced down the bank. She was warm, she was scared and awed and she was in his arms. She kissed him so hard she drew blood from his lip.

  His pulse screamed frenzy at her closeness – suddenly his adrenals were back in play.

  He held her, kissed her, felt her shake, watched the wonder over her shoulder. The world was burning, and he stood at its very edge.

  He had dreamed this. He had no breath. It was incredible.

  “What the rhez is going on?” The horsewoman was ducking as though the sky would harm her. “The world’s gone loco!”

  “Not a fucking – !”

  But even as Ecko called back, the firestorm was fading, the dancing lights failing. The clouds lost their angry pulse, the rain fell normally, solid and cool. Around them, grassfires steamed and hissed.

  Gone.

  Only the Monument, still glowing, nacreous and nicotine yellow – damn thing was radioactive. It stood in defiance of the stormy darkness, the wind and rain seeming suddenly, oddly calm.

  Tarvi was shaking. Hell, he was shaking too. Ecko had no idea what he’d just witnessed but it sure as hell beat the laser shows of the South fucking Bank.

  “Not a fucking clue,” he repeated. The clouds were empty, the rain just rain. His arms did not let Tarvi go.

  * * *

  On its belly, the broken centaur stallion was still massive, eyes crazed in the yellow light.

  Its shoulders were broader than Lugan’s – it looked like some sort of fucking giant, crouched in the grass. It was pale, rain sheeting down its skin. Its hands supported its weight and it was weakening, struggling not to fall forwards.

  But it still hadn’t quit.

  “I’m Redlock, Faral ton Gattana,” the axeman said. One axe was back through its belt-ring, he held the other casually over his shoulder. “There was a boy rode out this way, ’prentice to a Xenotian healer. His name was Feren. He was my cousin.”

  “I remember. He was weak and injured.” There was no surrender in the beast’s tone. It was dying, but it was challenging them to the last. “Expendable.”

  “Injured, yes – but stronger than you realised.” Redlock’s axehead – was it actually steel? – glinted in the rain. Both hands were long gloves of gore, his hair and garments were covered in Christ-knew-what – he was one savage motherfucking fighter. “What happened to his teacher?”

  “The healer’s mine.”

  Ecko slid closer. The stallion’s core temperature was dropping fast now – it was a corpse any second.

  “He’s pulled your fucking guts out, dobbin, you might wanna answer the guy.”

  The rain was slackening now, almost as if it realised the fighting was over. The thunder rumbled, far away towards the mountains.

  Triq had gone after their horses. Tarvi to the Monument itself, her face a mask of wonder and bathed in its light.

  “I’ll die before I answer you.” The beast seemed to find this funny. “One younger will be sent, the herd will live on.”

  “Not if I hunt down every last fireblasted one of you.” Redlock rammed the top of the axe under the monster’s chin, shoved its head back and stared it straight in the eyes. “Mares, foals, your entire damned family. Every single one of them will die. By my hand. Unless you tell me – where the rhez you’ve come from and where the girl is.”

  “And what the fuck just happened to the sky?” Ecko stood, arms crossed and casually curious. “Like whatever blew the shit outta the village we passed? What was that, fucking target practice?”

  The stallion slumped bodily, mane falling over his face, pushed himself back up.

  “Enough theatrics, asshole.” Ecko wasn’t buying that crap for a second. “What’s with the fucking pyrotechnics?”

  Redlock forced its head back further.

  “What’s the healer for? Why did you need her?”

  His jaw pinned by the axe, the stallion looked down his nose at both of them.

  “I am here to watch, guard – charged that all this is mine. You’ll never get down there.”

  Redlock said, “You’re starting to piss me off.”

  “Down where?” Ecko came forwards, his eyes red, his skin the blacks and greys of the plainland night, the yellow highlights of the Monument. As the beast looked, his eyes flickered through their scans. “Lemme guess. Mines? Dungeons? Secret passages? Fucking dwarves?” He grinned. “We got a healer here, too. She can keep you alive – for as long as this takes. So you cough the fuck up.”

  The rain was thinner now, wafting chill across the wind. Redlock was right in the beast’s face. “What did you come from – and where’s the girl?”

  “The girl belongs to us. Maugrim needed a healer – he knows metal, not flesh. And they were dying. Without her, he was failing – and the world would rot and perish.”

  “Who were dying?” Redlock sounded confused, but Ecko spoke over him.

  “Why do I know that name?” He paused to address the sky. “What’re you playing at?”

  The axeman spared him a raised eyebrow. Ecko didn’t respond.

  The centaur was still speaking. “The cathedral is mine. The Range Patrols –” the beast faltered, slumped, pushed itself back up “– don’t understand. Maugrim is building – passion and fire – helping. Our crafter, our sire, our creator and guide and vision and strength sent us to him. Together, they will forge such sights! The Powerflux... the elements... all awake now.” His head fell forwards, when he raised it again, his dark eyes were cracked with increasing pain. “Our sire... made us, he... The great stones, the grass, the work of Maugrim, the flower you creatures come seeking... he trusted them to me.”

  “He?” Redlock said, confused. “What ‘sire’?” The stallion snorted derision, but Ecko had realised something.

  “You’re nothing, you’re a fucking guard dog. Horse. You’re a minion.”

  “He...” The beast struggled, swallowed. He rallied to spit back at them, fanatical to the last. “He... made us. He... gave the grass... to me. I guard... If you stop this, the world will rot.”

  “Listen to me, you fireblasted corruption.” Triqueta was behind them, a travel sack over one shoulder. She stood over the axeman, arms folded, the stones in her cheeks catching the yellow light. “Feren told us... the girl – Amethea – said this was some great temple, some elemental stronghold, some passage grave to a forgotten hero. Is that where you were made? How do we get down there?”

  The stallion said, “He must... be allowed... to finish. He told us... to guard... the future. Maugrim builds... the future...”

  “You are making no fucking sense.” Ecko grabbed a handful of the thing’s mane. He was right in its face, wishing he still had his flamer. “Jesus, who programmed fanaticism, for chrissakes?”

 
Redlock said bleakly, “Who is this Maugrim?”

  “Guessin’ he’s the boss man,” Ecko said. “This place is some kinda power-node. He must be building something fucking huge – like particle accelerator huge. You gettin’ me? Boom.”

  The stallion sneered. “He told us... you’re all fools. The world stagnates round you, and you don’t care. Maugrim –” he was gasping now, his eyes losing focus “– fights.”

  “Maugrim’s going to get my boot up his arse,” Redlock said. “Damn all this esoteric elemental shit – where’s the girl?”

  The stallion started to laugh, faint and cold. It dissolved into coughing, blood flecked. “He owns her, mind and body and soul. She won’t even know you.”

  Tarvi was beside him, hand on his arm.

  “There’s no way down,” she said. “But I found the taer.”

  “Creatures born.” The stallion rallied, made a last desperate effort. His anger was gone now, even his madness. His last words were a plea. “We... were made... to be better!”

  Then he faltered, his great body rolling sideways.

  And he stared, empty eyed, at the sky.

  20: TREASURE

  THE MONUMENT

  They faced each other over the cooling corpse of the beast, its intestine slick with mud and rain.

  “So. Was that fun or what?” Under cloud and darkness, through soaking grass and spreading gore, Ecko turned his maniacal black grin on the axeman. “You sure throw one helluva party.” His skin flowed with the sick, yellow light of the broken Monument.

  “Where the rhez did you come from?” Redlock was blood to the elbows, saturated with violence. The wound in his shoulder was ragged and shallow, a bruised scape against the bone. And he wasn’t quitting yet.

  Ecko grinned. “You’d never believe me.”

  Over them, the night sky was lifting. Between thinning, wind-blown cloud, glimpses of moons loosed strobes of light across the grass tops. Drizzle scattered, cold and cutting. The Monument’s ghostly yellow nacre washed the plain with a sickly highlight.