Ecko Rising

She ground her gaze into focus and looked about her.

“’Fraid not, love.”

The voice startled her – she’d no idea that there was anyone else in the room. It had come from behind her, deep and masculine, the accent utterly strange. Stumbling up to her knees and wiping her face she turned to see who it was.

Her head hammered like her chearl’s thudding hooves and she remembered...

Leave the male to die, bring this one... There is need of a healer.

“Who...? What happened to...?” She stumbled over her words.

Heavy shoulders shrugged, uninterested in the question. Above them, a tangle of dark hair framed tanned, work-roughened skin, spotted with ingrained dirt like that of a miner, or a drover walking too long at the end of a column of beasts.

“Nice of you to drop in,” the man said.

She stared. Short beard, full mouth, half-smile; eyes as dark as that creature’s had been, but flecked with fire. Nervousness shivered her skin. She had no idea who he was, but he compelled her for reasons she couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Unconsciously, she raised a hand to her blood-streaked hair. Who was he?

He made her heart tremble in her chest.

Other realisations tolled through the clangour – a tiny chamber, floor and walls of worn rock slabs, but air tense with unidentified heat; pack and belt-knife gone, but pouches and neck thongs untouched; hair and garments, sticking uncomfortably with sweat, blood and fear.

There is need of a healer.

“Who are you? What happened to Feren?”

“He flew to the moon, sweetheart.” One callused hand extended to help her to her feet. The fingers were hot and strong, several had been broken at some time; he wore heavy, white-metal rings. There was old dirt under his nails. “C’mon, love, you’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

His tone was gentle, but those eyes...

“Hold on... hold on a moment.” She held up her hands to ward him off. “I’m leech and apothecary to the hospice in Xenok, Feren’s my ’prentice. I – we – came out to the Monument for taer and there was this... thing –”

“The stallion? Don’t let him upset you, he’s just my – ah – watchdog.” He lifted her chin, made her look up at him, smiled. “Like all fanatics – more ideal than intellect.”

“He shot – !”

“I’m sorry about your mate... but he didn’t suffer. You, little lady – you’re important.”

He didn’t suffer. For a moment, Feren’s death held her poised and breathless, disbelieving – but this man, whoever he was, was looking at her, into her, holding her heart and soul in his gaze. The fecks of fire in his eyes were warming. She sniffed, like a child, and his callused thumb stroked a stray tear from her face.

“It’s all over, love, all over. No need to worry now. Let’s get you a wash, and some clean kit – look at those big blue eyes and all that pale hair, you’re too pretty to be this much of a mess.”

Feren had fallen to the grasses, his hand gone from hers. “No...” She shook her head, breaking the contact – the thud of renewed pain helped her focus. “And... anyway... get off me.”

For a moment, it seemed the man chewed the side of his mouth. Then he caught her eyes again and smiled at her.

“Poor love, bloody stallion hit you like a wrecking ball – you’re confused.”

She was backing away – but the chamber was eerie, too close, too small. The sweat on her skin was like a glaze. “And why’s it so hot in here?”

“All right, all right, look.” He reached to close the gap between them, but she twitched back further – the stone in the wall was warm. “Baythunder – that great beastie you met outside – is barking, right? He shot your mate, liberated your chearl and left you with a dirty great clonk on your skull. You can’t get home to Xenok like you are.”

She found she was looking at him, feeling the warmth of his sympathy and watching his expression. As he reached again to brush the tears and blood and dirt from her face, she allowed him to touch her – and his heat shot through her flesh.

She caught her breath.

“That’s more like it,” he said softly. His smile deepened, showed the tips of his teeth.

“Who are you?” The question was quiet, her attention was all in his eyes.

“Maugrim,” he said. “I’ve had other names – but that one... suits me.” His hand stroked the side of her throat. “Welcome to the world’s new beginning.”

There is need of a healer.

For a moment, she held the strangest feeling that something had gone amiss. The plains, the Monument, a hand slipping from hers...

But she couldn’t remember. Maugrim’s hand was in her bloodied hair, his eyes like embers. He closed his fingers about the strands and pulled her head back – abrupt, not quite painful. She found herself breathing hard, his fire lighting her blood, a sudden, hot sensation of want...

“All you have to do,” he said, “is help me.”

She heard herself answer him, “I’ll help you. What can I do?”

The predatory smile broke through his beard like a blade.

* * *

Amethea dreamed.

She dreamed of heat. And lust. And passion. And power.

When she awoke, her vision was so full of flame she had to squint to realise the small, stone chamber was dim, the rocklight faltering.

The palette beside her empty.

She was still wet, sweetly aching from the repeated impact of his body on hers, skin and sheets were soaked in sweat.

The thought of him brought a lightning shiver of adrenaline, a rush of excitement, exultation that was new.

She sat up, his smile on her face – and there was no headache. Raising her fingertip to the wound in her eyebrow, she was unsurprised to find it gone – a scar like a sear in its place.

Heal and Harm, little lady, the oldest rule.

She had been going somewhere – had lost something, was looking for something? A faint sense of disquiet tickled her cheek like a moth... then – flash – was gone.

Whatever it was had been cleansed, inside and out. For the moment, her wants were assuaged, she needed only to brush work-roughened fingers over smooth sheets and recall the blaze of Maugrim’s need.

He had gone; he remained. She could smell him on her skin. Her head was full of him.

Disdaining to wrap her slender nakedness, she stood up.

About her, the chamber was even smaller than she’d thought, perhaps five paces in each direction. If she raised her arm, she could touch the ceiling. The walls and floor were all flat stone, wide regular shapes set in soil, smaller shapes packed in corners. In places, there were carved patterns, but the markings were unclear in the faltering light. That she was underground was evident – but where?

The air was hot and still. This was not the vast rock networks of the Kartiah Mountains, nor the open stone quarries of Belegandyne or Darash. She laid a hand against the wall, feeling the blood-warmth. The room was too small, yet there was a vastness around it that lost her; it felt...

In spite of the heat, shivers prickled her skin. A sudden, hollow rush sucked the memories of Maugrim from her and left her standing, minute and utterly alone, a fragmentary mote against the all-might of the stone arrayed about her.

It felt like a tomb, ancient, vast and infinite. It felt like a church. It felt as though Maugrim’s mesmeric presence were too tiny to be noticed.

It felt as though it was waiting.