Ecko Rising

by Danie Ware

  “Get up, Rhan Elensiel.” Phylos rammed his shoulder again against the rock. Shards of pain shot through his bruised spine. The Merchant glanced back as something blocked the light chinks, moved away. “Get up, and face your own execution. Like a man. If that’s what you are.”

  Rhan stared, lost in disbelief. Impossibility raged at him, a towering mockery that clamoured on all sides – how had Fhaveon been this undermined, this quickly? How long had Phylos and the Institute been laying groundwork? And how in the names of the Gods had he not noticed?

  Samiel’s teeth – had he been asleep?

  But he could answer that himself. No, just bored. Inattentive. Drinking, smoking, entertaining his friends and varied personages of exotic tastes...

  Like herbalist Penya Esamy.

  He wanted to rail at himself for being such a fool – but that time was past. The initial shock, the horror, was solidifying, now sending after-echoes through his thoughts – without Demisarr, his daughter Selana would lead the Council. She was young, easily controlled. If she named her mother Seneschal, perhaps there would be hope for the city.

  But if she named Phylos...

  It was an old, old story. Mainly because it damned-well worked.

  By the Gods, this was crazed!

  He shifted under Phylos’s hand, strove to stand. His vision darkened, cleared. Pain skittered through his back, his chest ground as he moved – he wondered, bizarrely curious, just how badly he’d been thrashed. How badly he’d deserved it.

  His mouth tasted of salt, blood and sand.

  He reached a panting crouch and managed, “I don’t know what you’ve done to me – what you’ve made me do – but it’s a lie.”

  The Merchant laughed, unfolded to his feet with a warrior’s ease. He stood over Rhan, blood-robes saturated to his knees.

  Rhan said, “You touch Selana and I’ll –”

  “The way you touched her mother?” The Merchant Master turned to the door, threw the words back over his shoulder. “You’re done. Today, Fhaveon begins her new life.”

  * * *

  The Theatre of Nine still rang with echoes of the tumult.

  Small beneath her father’s white cloak, The Lord Foundersdaughter Selana Valiembor was wide-eyed, struggling to master reactionary shivering. She’d faced them, all of them, from the head of that table and she’d done her damned best.

  Watching her, Phylos threw his own cloak across her chair – a splash of blue in this cold, white building. They were alone.

  “You did well, my Lord,” he told her gently. “Even without the grief and the outrage, the Council is a hard thing to control.”

  “‘Control’, Phylos?” Her voice was clear, remarkably steady. “I thought my role was to guide?”

  “Of course.” The blood-clad Merchant Master gave a slight bow, changed tack. “My Lord, perhaps now the meeting is over, there’s a matter we can discuss privately?”

  “The naming of my Seneschal –”

  “No, my Lord.” He smiled affectionately at her, as if the issue were farthest from his mind. “I speak of the burning – and the harvest.”

  Pain flickered a line between her brows. She put back the voluminous white hood as if she set her title aside, relaxed.

  “I wish I knew,” she said. “If this continues...”

  “I’ve despatched runners, my Lord, following Roderick’s hysteria. The Bard may be crazed, but there’s no fault in caution.”

  The girl nodded. She wandered around the table, trailing her fingertips across its cold surface, looking up at the great mural carved into the circular wall.

  “Do you mean what you say to me, Phylos? That this is a new beginning?” Cold quartz lay dead in the stone. “That Fhaveon will know new life?”

  “Assuredly, my Lord. Enough of saga and history and forgotten woes.” He smiled up at Rhan’s plummeting stone likeness, a sharp edge of anticipation. “It’s time we take responsibility, make our destiny our own.”

  “History.” She was still looking at the great saga around her, the city’s history, her construction by Saluvarith and Tekissari, the gift of the GreatHeart Rakanne. “Meaning Roderick’s vision – ?”

  “Meaning the terhnwood, my Lord. Where is our life manifest if not in the grass, in the harvest, in the life of the Varchinde? Rhan murdered your father, hurt your mother and he will pay. It is your time now.”

  She turned, pale face and white cloak, the might of her forefathers graven in the stone behind her.

  “Your vision is compelling, Phylos. I want to make decisions, to remember the strength of the Valiembor House.” She extended her hand to him. “You’ll help me?”

  “My lord, your mother –”

  “My mother is broken –”

  “Your mother is livid.” He met her eyes, took her slim hand in his own, ran his thumb softly across her skin. “But you’re right, she’s lost her objectivity – at least for the moment.”

  “Then you’ll stand with me, Phylos? Help me steer the city through the chaos to come?”

  “I will, my Lord.” In a billow of scarlet, the Merchant Master sank to his knees, bent over the girl’s hand. “As the Gods are my... No.” He looked up at her, sincerity in every line of his face and being. “As you are my witness, Selana, Lord and daughter of Lords, I give you my life and swear that I will stand by you, defend and protect you; that I will guard this city as though she were my lover –” his hand tightened on hers, eyes searched her face “– and carry her to a future of glory and strength.”

  She was staring at him, transfixed.

  He came to his feet in a rush, a paean of hope. “We will save the Grasslands, Selana, you and I!”

  And she was in his arms, slight and soft and pliant, her breath as sweet as summer sunrise.

  19: SENTINEL

  THE MONUMENT

  There was a red and jagged flash, a wound in the sky that split the grey clouds right down to the plain. There was an instant – the stallion on his hind legs, his huge body black against the Monument’s radiance. There was wet grass, shouts snatched away by the wind – and then everything screamed into motion.

  His starlites flooded by the flash, Ecko kicked his heatseeker – the stallion was chill skinned in the rain but its body heat was a furnace. It was red hearted, red souled. Behind it, the Monument glowed like a kiln, a crucible of potential.

  As the adrenaline jumped, everything swam, slowed. He shot forward, the grass buffeting him. He watched the colours that were the centaur’s legs, its claws, but his targeters crossed its weakest point.

  One foot in the bollocks and this thing was going down.

  On the creature’s other side, the heat signature of the axeman was slow in comparison – but as inevitable as a well-thrown rock. Both axes went for the fetlock on its rear leg. The bones were delicate; even on this monster, they’d splinter like dry wood. Hack the fucker off at the ankles – Ecko liked this guy’s style.

  In front of the beast, still spitting fury, the goldie girl Triqueta was outmatched and overwhelmed by the monster, a hot glow of anger against the cold mass of sky. She had no bridle – how the hell she controlled that critter, he’d no fucking clue – but she surged the horse out of range as blue-cold claws grasped at the air.

  Her horse was freaked, dancing like she’d electro-jabbed it.

  He spared a moment to hope that Tarvi and the chearl had gained the cover of the inside of the bank...

  And his cross hairs targeted. Damn thing had balls the size of –

  But the stallion was too smart.

  From the colossal, upright rear, it went over – one staggeringly powerful jump that took it away from feet and axes, past where Triqueta timed her turn. For just an instant, its belly was cold blue against the sky, one side highlighted red by the stones’ glow, then it landed in the thick, wet grass and its rear claws smashed out at anything following.

  It lurched, spun round, teeth bared and foreclaws ripping the grass into a mangled mess of mud and
fury. Its too-human eyes were demented with reflected light.

  The rain glittered as if the air was broken.

  “You presume?” It sounded amused. “Creature-created I am, you have no skills to match me.”

  “Sure I do.” Ecko shrugged. Rain soaked his skin. “You wanna find out?”

  The two mares closed, now, to flank him. They were smaller, high breasted and heavy shouldered with the same core glow and cold skin. Both bore curved bows and disdainful expressions – water ran in streams from their hide.

  The sky flashed again, red as blood, red as the ’bot’s target-scan, the thunder was low overhead. In the open plain, the rain was hammering merciless, it slashed into them like blade fragments.

  Ecko kicked out his heatseeker to check weapons.

  In one fluid move, all three creatures nocked, drew and loosed.

  In elegant slo-mo, three featherless shafts ripped through the wet air, flexing with the force of the shot.

  At the axeman.

  Their strength was deadly, their aim impeccable. Ecko spared a second to wonder what the hell the draw was on those fucking things...

  No idiot, the axeman was moving, perfectly practiced, rolling sideways below the level of the grass tops.

  Adrenaline hot, Ecko started to grin.

  As the stallion screamed fury and denial, there was a shadow, red eyed, darting more swiftly than the shafts themselves. His targeters blipped – once, twice, three times – plotted the arc. One arm swept, wet cloak flowing behind it – and the missiles were knocked wide. Lost in the grass.

  And he was was gone again – a phantom in the darkness.

  The axeman got as far as “What – ?” before Ecko’s harsh rasp shouted over the downpour, “So, ‘creature-created’. What else you got?”

  The second volley came straight for him.

  He cackled... and he was simply no longer there. After a world of nerve-contacted firearms, a bow and arrow just didn’t have a fucking prayer.

  “Nice try, Sagittarius – you might wanna invest in some sights.”

  The beast bellowed rebellion.

  Down in the mass of the grass, the axeman shot out, “What the rhez are you?”

  “Toldja – reinforcements.” Ecko’s eyes flashed red. “Deal with the big fucker, I’m going after his harem.” With a grin, he ducked sideways out of the axeman’s vision.

  And cursed himself, for the fucking hundredth time, for dropping Salva’s rifle.

  * * *

  Triqueta’s mare was terrified. She wasn’t bolting – not yet – but she was whinnying through her teeth, her ears were back and she was shaking her wet mane against her neck.

  Behind her, Redlock was advancing, combat-crouch, both axes spinning – one forwards, one back. He was soaked, hair and garments plastered to him, two thirds the height of the monster, but grim faced, utterly fearless. His confidence was palpable. Triq’d lay odds on his victory – an axe in the belly was going to slow that beast right down.

  But it would get another shot before he closed.

  Red lightning flashed.

  In that instant, one of the mares squealed, rocked sideways and shot down suddenly at something beside it.

  The other raised its recurve and loosed the shaft at Triqueta.

  It hit her horse in the shoulder, skidded off bone and buried itself in the saddle-side.

  The mare screamed, instinctually turned to bite.

  The beast was nocking another, hands almost as fast as Triq’s could be.

  Shit!

  Thunder threatened, it rolled low round her ears. Wind and rain tore at her clothing, her skin. One chance.

  As the mare gathered her legs to flee, Triq knotted one hand in her mane, swung her head sharply round. The horse hesitated – that was all her rider needed. She sat back in the saddle, down and hard.

  The creature stopped, fidgeting madly.

  With burning fury, Triq turned her towards the abomination. The rain hit them both, full in face. Triq blinked and spat water, it ran from her skin like blood.

  That damn thing wasn’t getting off another shot.

  * * *

  Lost in the dark grass, grinning like a fiend, Ecko eyed the massive flank – ribs and muscles and hide – of the beast in front of him. He was still boosted, quivering with sustained adrenaline – soaked to the skin and waiting... poised...

  Even with his speed, he was gonna have to be fast.

  Then there it was – the jab of lightning, the IR-sight flash that exploded everything into split-second red light.

  He put all his strength into it, every trick Mom had built for him, every fragment of his focus and adrenaline – and he lashed one perfectly placed kick at the side of the thing’s knee.

  As it turned, it saw a dark shape, red eyes...

  ...then the light flash was gone.

  The leg splintered and the creature buckled, squealing in pain and fury. But it shifted its weight to the other legs and shot back at the shadows in the grass.

  It missed him. As the thunder rumbled, Ecko had vanished.

  One down, he thought to himself. Three more to go.

  * * *

  Redlock faced the stallion.

  In the back of his mind – Feren, child and laughing, running through the citrus orchards of his Idrakian home. His daughter, red hair in the sun; his wife, the embroidery on the front of her gown.

  The memory twisted. Get out, Far! Take your ideals and your ambitions and see if they’ll build you a home! See if you can eat them, sleep with them, love them –

  Her bitter, eviscerating voice echoed down through returns.

  And with it came anger.

  The flood of fury, the heat in his blood, the elation, the tight, narrow-focus precision. Around him, everything else had gone – the grass, the rain, the light, the storm, the sky. His world was honed, sharp as an axe-edge, his attention pure and absolute.

  It freed him – he lived for moments like these.

  The beast loosed its shot. It was close – too close – he twitched his hips and belly sideways.

  It was past him and gone.

  It wasn’t going to nock another. He was racing forwards, low down through the grass, both weapons spinning into place with his full force behind them. A hard double feint, high at its chest – it turned the huge bow to block – but the axeman dropped sharply and the cuts came under, vicious and exact. He hit both lower forelegs, slashing flesh, splintering bone.

  The stallion snarled, staggered.

  His expression set, Redlock smashed it again, one side then other – then he dove sideways, out of its range.

  This time, it shrieked, lurched forwards. One claw slashed at him, the heel of the bow slammed hard into his shoulder. It caught his roll and drove him sideways, almost to his knees.

  The pain was sharp, the nock tore through fabric and skin – his blood surged, roaring in his ears. As he came back up, he threw his bodyweight into the beast, slammed the struck shoulder up under its raised leg. The opposite axe uppercut, hacked into ribs with a vicious impact. He heard them crack, splinters of broken bone visible through hide and flesh.

  Hissing fury through gritted teeth, he tried to force the beast to fall.

  He failed.

  The creature’s weight was too much for him; it was grinding him down into the grass. He wasn’t strong enough to hold this colossal, soaking, stinking, struggling creature. He slammed his axe into its ribs again, and again; they shattered like dry firewood. He could hear the rumblings of its belly, the grunts of pain with each broken bone.

  Then, suddenly, the creature’s weight was gone. He staggered, nearly fell, his shoulder pounding. It stood on its hind legs, claws flashing about his face, blocking the wind, the rain, the light, like a wall. Its ribs were grinding, blood streamed down its belly and legs.

  Right, you bastard.

  The thing has made its mistake.

  * * *

  Triq leapt her little mare straight at the monste
r.

  The creature was big – the femininity of breasts and face somehow more disturbing than the stallion’s insanity. Shrieking fury into the dark sky, she barged the mare broadside into the beast’s lower chest, haunches shoving at it like a cavalry mount. Snarling, it dropped the bow and made a grab for Triq’s wet hair. She dipped sideways, one blade opening a triangular tear across its ribs.

  Foreclaws useless, the creature closed to shove back. It kneed the mare repeatedly in the belly, making her snort and bare her teeth to bite. It was close, too close, over her. She could smell the horse-stink of skin and hide and anger, the sweat, the fury. She could see where it had sunburn, the worn, wet leather of the halter top it wore, the white scar that crossed one shoulder. Its coarse, rain-soaked mane was hitting her in the face.

  Spitting, shaking herself free of itch and water, Triq shoved back, but her little mare was too small. Savagely snarling, wordless and furious, the creature was gaining ground. Its hands grappled for her wrists.

  It said, “Sister.”

  The word sent a chill through Triq’s flesh – as though some daemon figment had called her by name. It was a hiss, an accusation.

  “Don’t bet on it, sunshine.” Barging, barging repeatedly, Triq fought to push it back. Its claws pulled chunks out of the soil, raking at the mare’s delicate legs. Triq’s shortsword tore open another ragged gash, and another. Blood seeped into the rain on its skin. “You know what this weapon is?” Slash, jab. “Do you know?” Barge, slash. “It’s the one that killed your foal.”

  The beast’s expression twisted, it bared predator’s teeth. Its dark eyes – so human, so animal – met hers. Just for a second, there was sanity, realisation.

  Motherhood.

  Then one huge fist smashed her in the face.

  Triq wasn’t fast enough. She snatched her head sideways, but the blow caught her ear, slamming pain through her skull and making her reel in her saddle. Thunder rolled – she wasn’t sure if it was inside her clanging head.

  The beast was brutal – not fast, but powerful. It reached a hand for Triq’s neck and brought the fist back to slam again.

  She was dizzied, sparks exploding in her vision. Pain blinded her; rain battered her shoulders. She held on to both blades – just – kept the mare under her with a grip that was pure reflex.