Ecko Rising

27: SICAL

                    THE MONUMENT

The flame-angel burned, mighty as a Fawkes-night detonation, hurling its fire into the cavern like a shout. Sparks leapt from it, the wash of heat was incredible.

It was glorious, compelling and fascinating and destructive. Fed by the stone capacitor from above and by blood from below, it was the heart of the fractal pattern, the single image that would repeat itself endlessly, consuming, expanding.

Tarvi had shown him a taste of its glory.

Ecko’s adrenals were awakening: he could feel the buzz in his kidneys, the thrill starting to sparkle in his blood. He was poised on a blade-edge of indecision – to take down the axeman, to free the creature and burn this whole fucking mockery to ash...

Turn back to page one!

But Lugan’s lighter was cool in his hand. The elemental was fatal. It would make his program fall to pieces around him, code crashing on the screen he’d never seen...

Head games.

Everything his Tech had done to him, everything she’d put him through and given him – he’d asked her for all of it. Because Tamarlaine needed to be Ecko.

And Ecko was a fucking hero. Whatever.

Yeah, this world has one fucking champion, and that would be me! Call my bluff, willya, bitch – I make my own fucking choices!

In the centre of the conflagration, the white-hot eyes were still visible. A nebulous, fiery arm reached out to them. It held the fascination he’d known all his life. Like a person with vertigo feels that irrepressible urge to jump, so Ecko now understood. He let himself fall, he let the fire light him, he opened himself to his own power and passion.

Stop fucking fretting already, stop second-guessing yourself. You are Patient fucking Zero. Whatever power there is – control it. You are the damned fractal – the pattern spreads from you!

His adrenals screamed as they hit overdrive.

* * *

From behind where Ecko raged, Redlock came past him, dodged through the gaps left by the open sarcophagi, and lunged, double slash, for the figure of Maugrim.

The Elementalist’s attention had been thrown high and wide – as though he, too, raged with the Sical’s fire – but he was still quick enough to dodge the axe blades. The chain lashed in twin figure-eights, to his left and then right. He crossed the ends over as though they were as light as rope.

Redlock’s brown eyes narrowed at this display of skill – they were close to the fire, and the huge brazier sprang sweat from his skin.

The Sical’s life glistened from the chain, made the axeman’s red hair blaze. As Redlock moved in for the second attack, first one end of the chain and then the other caught him across the ribs. He staggered in pain. Maugrim paced him, round the brazier’s edge, still backing away from the range of the short-handled axes.

But in Redlock’s ears raged the adrenaline of his battle lust. The pain caused a surge of fury that made him grin, tight and eager. This was the feeling he knew with every nerve ending. He welcomed it to him and his anger uncurled, precise and targeted.

He knew how to fight two-handed, knew the tricks and how to avoid them. The impressive double whirl should gain the offensive, it was a tactic he understood. With fast feet, he went forwards. Both ends of the chain whipped past him, catching his hair as they crossed over. He spun the axes easily, hitting Maugrim in the belly and slashing deep. The Elementalist coughed blood, but did not pause. Bracing his weight, he surged forwards, and in one swift movement, wrapped the length of chain between his hands about Redlock’s neck.

And fought to tighten it.

The chain-ends lost their coordination and clashed to a stop.

Redlock couldn’t breathe. His lungs strained for air, he could feel the pressure in his face. The heat became anger. He’d not crossed weapons with this madman to die at his blood-blackened hands.

For Feren. For his damned wife, his daughter.

Grunting, he threw his weight forwards into the loop. Maugrim, surprised, crashed to the floor, Redlock’s knee in his cut stomach. One axe whipped over the chain and upwards.

The Elementalist coughed blood; it streamed from his nose and mouth and matted his beard.

The axe blade was almost in his face. He let go of the chain with one hand, catching the shaft, trying to push the warrior’s weight off him. Redlock tried to pull backwards, but Maugrim broke his nose with the other, chain- wrapped, fist. The axeman fell backwards, losing his grip on his axes and skidding to the floor. His head bounced off the stalagmite pillar and he shook himself, half stunned.

The Sical blazed above him.

Maugrim got his feet under him, kicked the axes behind him and grinned.

Weaponless, sharp needles of pain jabbing into his face, Redlock grabbed one end of the chain, and pulled.

But Maugrim held it firm. He swung the free end a couple of times to build momentum, then smashed Redlock across the shoulder as he pulled himself to his feet. Whipping it back, he struck again across the other shoulder, the chain slashing through the fire and spilling sparks. For a moment they played tug of war, but upright now – Redlock let go.

Maugrim staggered. Redlock skidded past him, scrabbled for a second, then spun back with axes in hands.

They stalked each other again. Redlock’s nose splashed across his face. Maugrim’s belly cut seeping, but not deep enough. The Elementalist’s eyes reflected the fire of the Sical, but Redlock fought for Feren’s death and with certainty born from long returns of winning. He would not back down.

* * *

Before Ecko, the statues were grinding into motion.

Rank upon rank of them, eyes of fire and stained grey stone graunching into life as if the Sical were their master. But Ecko was fighting now, his speed inhuman, his targeters flashing, crossing, homing – faster than a thought and flickering like a twist of darkness. His fear and doubt had been burned away in the decisiveness of motion.

He was a fucking hero.

One foot, a powered kick that sent the first shambling attacker staggering backwards, its chest cracked like the rotting stonework of the walls. His own shout echoed back to him. He crouched, his fists before his chest and face, switched feet and kicked again, his targeters leading him, plotting trajectory and weak point. His blood sang with oxygen. A second impact, a second stone critter halted in its tracks – and it simply crumbled, a rumble of rubble crashing to the floor.

With a spin, he took out a third, a lashing piston kick that dropped it, crashing backwards and shattering into pieces.

They came on, closing around him, almost closer than he could take out – but he was on fire. One foot struck under the chin of a fourth and took its stone head clean off its shoulders.

Their eyes glowed sullen, they were walling him in, reaching for him with pitted grey hands – they ground as they moved, stone zombies from a forgotten graveyard. A savage spin-kick took out a fifth, axed back for a sixth. The rubble was building round him.

You see me now, Eliza? Huh?

He had so been waiting for this.

* * *

At the cathedral’s heart, still trapped by the brazier, the Sical raged livid – imprisoned and furious. It spoke now, crying out in its own liquid-and-crystal tongue, but it could not get free.