Ecko Rising

by Danie Ware

  A chill shivered her shoulders. For Feren’s sake she said, “Vilsara said the Patrols do come here; they’re probably checking to see we’re not chiselling the names of old lovers into the stones.”

  But she turned her beast to look.

  Surprisingly close and coming fast – fast – up the other side of the hill were three mounted riders. In the almost-dark, they were barely more than shadows – the hauntings of the Kartiah brought to life. The glimmering of the Monument hampered her ability to see. She blinked and tapped heels to her chearl to move forwards.

  Behind her now, Feren said, “That’s not a Patrol...”

  The riders were swift and silent. They showed no signs of slowing as they came closer. Moonlight glinted from smoothly flowing horse muscles and –

  Goddess.

  As they came towards the top of the hill, she saw them clearly and she realised...

  They weren’t riders.

  They were attached.

  Too stunned to move, her placid chearl ever-unworried beneath her, Amethea gawked. In the failing light, they were all but on top of her before she could understand that what she saw was real – those were horses all right, big ones, heavy legged and strong...

  ...but they had no heads.

  No heads!

  From their equine shoulders came the upper bodies of people – as smoothly muscled and powerful as the horse bodies beneath. The creature in front was larger than the other two; he bore a longbow as thick as his wrist and fully as tall as Amethea’s chearl.

  He was fast. Between her realisation and her very next heartbeat, he was before her and looming over her – chearl mounted as she was! – he was close enough for her to feel his breath.

  For the briefest of moments, she met his eyes, human eyes, gleaming in the Monument’s light. Stupidly, her mind told her he was beautiful, wild haired and potent, the blood in his skin pounding with outrage. As he opened his mouth, she saw long incisors glitter.

  He screamed down at her, a sound of pure fury.

  Shocked out of her disbelief, she was trying to back up and turn her beast, slamming her heels into its shoulders, shouting at Feren to do the same. Hopelessness laughed at her. Big as they were, chearl couldn’t outrun a good horse on a short distance and that... thing... was bigger than any horse she’d ever seen. Fear hammering in her chest, she leaned back against the saddle support as he gathered his legs to turn and run.

  Feren, too – she caught a flash of his ghost-white face as she passed him – was turning his beast to flee. Perhaps he prayed. She screamed at him to run, run.

  The first fletchless shaft hit his chearl’s hindquarters.

  It squealed, skidded, lurched sideways and kept moving. Feren cursed, his voice high with fear. Amethea paused to wait for him, and dark shapes flickered past on either side of her. And stopped.

  Trying to trap them.

  “Fe-ren!”

  He looked, but his fear-crazed eyes went straight through her.

  A second shaft hit his beast’s other side. It skidded again, its back legs faltering. With an inarticulate shriek, Feren crashed sideways to the ground, the rein still in his hand.

  “Don’t let it drag – !” Amethea called. The height of the fall tore his hand free. Instinctively, she stopped.

  But what could she do?

  In the emptiness of the plainland night, she turned her beast to face the creature. Lost in the grasses beside her, Feren moved, fear and pain spilling from his mouth. With a faint feeling of ludicrousness, she drew her own belt-knife.

  “I’m a healer, I belong to the Hospice in Xenok – what do you want?” Her defiance was shrill, blade and voice shook. Did this thing of madness even understand?

  “Little lady.”

  What had she expected? Not this masculine elegance; this sensually perfect voice that shivered her ears. Her chearl watched the mighty creature, his head up and ears cocked forwards.

  “We only came for the taer...”

  “The taer is mine!” His flare of passion made her jump. “The grass is mine, the great stones are mine. Creature-created I may be – but I am crafted to mastery, to leadership. I am better than these stupid beasts that let you sit upon them. They, too, are now mine.”

  Crafted to what? Knife forgotten, she stared. Behind her, there was a flurry of movement and a high, skin-crawling scream. Something big struggled, coughed liquid and fell. Feren’s chearl?

  “Please...” This was crazed. “...I’m an apothecary, a healer –”

  The creature glowered at her, his predator’s teeth flashing, the light shining from his smooth skin. “Heal and Harm, little lady, the oldest rule. Apothecary or alchemist, you must obey. Do you understand?” One foreleg raked, tearing the grass. She saw that it was tipped, not in a hoof, but in a huge, three-toed claw.

  “None can learn one without learning the other.” It was a child’s lesson. “But – alchemist? What made you, what – ?”

  “The craft is found,” he said to her. He paced forwards until he was almost close enough to touch. His presence was stifling, even flattened against the high back of her saddle, she could feel the heat of his skin. Her chearl whickered at him, bizarrely unafraid. “We return. But do you know what it means?”

  “It means...” Overpowered, she wanted only to back away, but did not dare move. “No, I don’t...”

  “I am alive!” Rage burned from him like madness. “Creature-created, I am, crafted for perfection – better than these foolish beasts. And it makes my life more important that yours.”

  What...? She did not find the opportunity to articulate the thought.

  His voice dropped to a thrum. “Have you saved a life, little lady?”

  Barely a whisper. “Yes.”

  “Have you taken a life?”

  She had hunted creatures for food, much as anyone. “...Yes.”

  He laughed at her, cavernous and chillingly perceptive.

  “Can you wield that little blade you bear? Yes – or you would not be out here alone.” Stepping back, he crossed muscled arms over his chest. “Take the life of the young male that cowers beside you.”

  “No.” Her reaction was immediate and without question. Feren was struggling to stand, his face white. Behind them, the other two creatures closed in.

  “It is weak and injured, it serves no purpose.” The creature nocked a huge, flightless arrow and began to bend the limbs of his longbow. “It pollutes the whole. Its life is mine and I say it is done.”

  “Thea...” She found Feren’s hand on her leg and covered it with her own. He was shaking, sweating. Dimly, she understood that the fall had injured him – yet, somewhere, her fear and disbelief were starting to smoulder into anger. “Maybe... I was right... about the mountains...”

  “Take its life, little lady,” the creature said. “Show you understand.”

  “Or you’ll take mine?” She found there was an edge in her voice.

  In the pale light, the great bow flexed and loosed.

  Feren gave a faint cry. His hand was gone from hers as he fell.

  So sudden. So utterly final.

  The flickering of her defiance drowned in total incomprehension, she shook her head. No. Instinctive, pointless denial. No.

  Her chearl shifted, snorted at the metal smell of blood.

  “Leave the male to die, bring this one.” The great creature ran a hand though his mane of hair – a disturbingly ordinary gesture. “There is need of a healer.”

  Reeling from shock and nausea, the blow to her head somersaulted her forwards into the dark.

  * * *

  His face itched.

  When he moved his arm to brush the grass away, other sensations shot through him – sickness, cold.

  Pain.

  He stomach lurched and he retched – a dark, liquid splash on the grass stalks before him.

  Inanely, he heard Amethea’s voice, ...told you not to guzzle it all, and it came with the realisation he wanted water.

 
; He retched again, a thin stream of bile and blood.

  Above him, the air was cold.

  With an effort that spilled tears down his cheeks, he got his hands under him and pushed his face and chest away from the bloodied grass. He looked up.

  Far, far above him, the sky glimmered faintly – it was almost dawn.

  Across from where he had fallen, the body of his poor chearl still bore saddle and panniers. Black specks buzzed sluggishly about its eyes.

  Fighting the urge to retch yet again, he tried to sit up.

  And collapsed, biting his lip against a scream.

  The pain was in his belly, just over one hip, focused about the arrow shaft that had spiked him front to back. One hand found it; carefully explored it. It was a broadhead, he could feel the point. At such short range, that monster bow had simply punched it straight through him.

  Okay – the Gods were with him. He knew how to deal with this.

  Chearl, panniers, healers’ kit.

  Apothecary, heal yourself.

  Stupidly, he started to laugh.

  His laughter scaled upwards and he found himself fighting for control. He was shouting, shrieking, “Thea, help me!”, yet knowing that the creatures had taken her. He raised his hands to cover his face and sobbed.

  He was going to die out here, under the haunted mountains, and the insects would eat his eyes.

  Yet the tears subsided and, oddly, he felt better – calmer. Chearl, panniers, healers’ kit. Swallowing nausea and mindful of the arrow shaft, he tried again to sit up.

  As he moved, white anguish seared up his leg and he felt a muffled, sickly grinding.

  He stopped, panting. Using his arms and hands to support his weight, he forced himself into a half kneel, his right leg out before him.

  His foot was badly twisted. Breathing hard, now – focus, focus – he slowly tried to move his knee, his ankle, his toes.

  Distantly, a high-pitched yammering was echoed by a second, closer by. Realising he must stink of blood, he tried to order his thoughts.

  His ankle was broken. His tight, laced-up boots – a gift from his cousin – would hold the injury, but he needed a crutch if he was going to move any distance.

  Distance...

  It was then that Feren realised he was going to try for the trade-road. Surprised for a moment at the clarity of his resolve – and at the impossibility of crossing the plains, alone, injured and without water – he looked down at his tough, dusty boot.

  “It’s not about courage,” Redlock had once told him, “it’s about necessity. When you have to face something impossible, you’ll find you will – because you don’t have a choice.”

  Chearl, panniers, healers’ kit.

  Moving with incredible care, he shifted on his hands and backside over to the poor, dead beast that had carried him from Xenok. The insects rose resentfully at his approach, several larger things scampered – and slithered – into the grass. He didn’t want to think about it. In the uppermost pannier: road rations, empty waterskin, spare foot coverings, herb bag, dry kindling.

  Javelins.

  Dried fruit took the taste of blood from his mouth; its sweetness gave him a sudden rush of energy. He had a momentary flash of Amethea, passing him a piece only hours ago, but blinked back the image and turned instead to tearing his linen foot bindings into long, narrow strips.

  The last strip he tore in half, folded into two pads, and stuck both between his teeth.

  One deep breath.

  Two.

  Snapping the front of the shaft was easy – it just hurt. The wound was wide and ragged. Snapping the back was awkward and had him sobbing, grinding his teeth into the linen.

  But he did it. Leaving the centre of the arrow still in his flesh, he took the pads from his teeth and added a scattering of herb to his own saliva.

  Oh, yes. Graduate me now.

  Carefully, he bound them, front and back, to hold the arrow in place.

  Then, shaking, he retched again, pieces of bloody, half-chewed fruit.

  As his coughing subsided, he wiped water from his eyes and focused instead on his ankle. He needed a piece of wood long enough to make a crutch, but the javelins were too short and, this far from the river, what trees that grew were stunted and bent by the endless wind.

  The distance to the trade-road was suddenly tremendous. Despair threatened him – he couldn’t walk, he had no water. How – ?

  Necessity, Redlock had said.

  But what he did have...

  He and Amethea had both been carrying small bundles of dry firewood. The trade-road sites were tended and deliveries regular – but out here, wood was difficult to come by. Only a little – just enough to cook on – but maybe...

  They had been going to make camp in the Monument itself – a kids’ adventure. Funny how crazed that now seemed.

  Bound across the back of the chearl’s saddle and covered by a length of waxed calico, a small bundle of wood. A couple of pieces were maybe the length of his arm, but again the Gods were smiling – one piece provided him with a forked rest for his armpit and if he was careful, he could bind it to the javelin shaft...

  It wasn’t perfect – the wood was too dry to take his weight for long – but he bound it as tight as he could with what remained of his linen and prayed that it would hold to the road, at least.

  By the time he was done, the sun was rising into a clear, bright summer sky.

  His mouth was parched. He drained the last drops from his waterskin and slung it over his shoulder, just in case. Then he took his fruit and his herb bag and bade a farewell to his silent chearl.

  He knew he would never make it.

  5: LIVING THE NIGHTMARE

  THE WANDERER, ROVIARATH.

  With a final reminder of his offer of help, the Bard left Ecko alone.

  To think.

  Ecko waited until the door had closed, then picked up the bowl of food. For a moment, he was tempted to sling it across the room, but his belly grumbled again and, gracelessly, he started to shovel it down. He’d probably give himself indigestion, but he was fucking starving, and twenty kinds of freaked out, and frankly, he didn’t care. Hell, for all he knew, his stomach wasn’t even real.

  This was fucking ridiculous. Wasn’t it?

  Yeah, like now the shock is settling in...

  His brain was doing a wall-of-death, spinning and chaos and noise. Some part of him wanted to jump screaming from the window and just pray that he’d land with a splatter on the south bank of the Thames...

  ...wake up in a nice, safe hospital. White walls and blankets and shit. He’d even deal with the intravenous happy juice, at least until they came to get him.

  And the window was right there, for chrissakes.

  Right.

  There.

  But that would be quitting. And if there was one thing Ecko wasn’t, it was a quitter.

  He paced the length of the pattern-woven rug, kicking angrily at bits of broken table. He spooned more stew. The rocklight slid over him as if it were trying to make him welcome, and his skin shifted with its colour.

  The stew, whatever it was, was unexpectedly good – he found himself cleaning the bowl with the breadcrust. It was rich and warm, and it left a feeling of fullness, a luxury that seemed to uncoil through muscle and nerve. He’d been a child the last time he’d eaten anything like it.

  It slowed him, helped him clear his head.

  Think.

  His frenetic pacing eased, then stopped altogether. He put the bowl back on the tray, and tried to focus.

  So, here I am then: the Little Pub on the Prairie.

  He turned back to the window, to the starless sky and the batshit moonlight. The urge to jump had faded, but the smoulder of resentment had not.

  Just remember: I ain’t your bitch, bitch, an’ I ain’t gonna be a rat in your maze. I’m gonna beat this.

  From somewhere outside, there came a throbbing of hooves, a squeak of wheels that retreated into the night. He groaned
.

  Horses? You gotta be kidding me...

  For a moment, Ecko had a horrible vision of trying to ride one – he could ride a bike, but anything with legs was taking the fucking piss already. Jesus, Eliza, you’re not funny...

  Chances of success at...

  Without warning, he was hit by a return of his claustrophobia, a rising, panicked mental shriek. This can’t be happening! He needed to understand, he needed know where he was, how he got here, how he fit in – or didn’t – how much free will he had to make his own decisions. Was Eliza watching him, marking him, managing him? Could she pull his strings and make him dance? He had his start point, but how did he get even the basics – a cache of kit, a hiding place?

  A fucking map?

  What the hell was really out there?

  For a second, his boosted adrenaline meshed with his fear and they screamed engine loud, thundering a pulse beat of blood in his ears. He had a sudden mouthful of stew and bile.

  I have to – !

  Have to – !

  No!

  Choking on the effort, he stayed where he was, fists clenched, fighting the rage impulse back under control. He stood, shaking, swallowing. His throat burned. He could almost hear Eliza laughing at him.

  Chances of successful adjustment: 17.84%... 17.83, .82...

  But she could laugh all she wanted, he was gonna sort this thing, and she could just sit there and fucking watch.

  Somehow, he was gonna do this shit.

  * * *

  He was standing at the long window by the desk when there was another knock on the door.

  Outside, the moons shone silent, alien and compelling. They lit the square and faded sign at the foot of the building’s short foregarden. It had no design, no creatures rampant or rearing, it said only “The Wanderer” and it squeaked back and forth in a breeze that tickled his skin through imperfections in the window seals. Tight streets were paved in glistening cobblestones; an empty square seemed to indicate some sort of gathering or market space. Figures hurried, heads down, cloaked and hooded – every fucking one of them looked like the poster boy for the local Guild of Assassins.

  Willya look at that. Ecko thought, with a grin. I’m gonna fit right in.