Ecko Rising

Her healer’s hands were like strangers. The blood of others was crusted beneath her nails, caked in the skin about their outsides. She had failed – again. Maugrim would be angry with her, but her hands were helpless. They lay in her lap as if they were broken.

The girl was keening, last breaths thin with horror. She had collapsed, slumped and broken on the dirty stone. As Amethea watched, she shuddered once, tried to speak, and was still.

Reaching forward, Amethea closed her eyes. Her metal-scaled skin was cold. Perhaps she should have prayed, but there was no touch of hope in this Godsless place.

The girl was the third failure, the third tormented death, the third sufferer to succumb to Maugrim’s burning passion, to the exquisite tortures of the Kartian craftmaster called Vice.

Maugrim was a blaze of vision; an architect so powerful that she’d not even felt herself fall. He pulled her, drove her, wanted her and inspired her. She hated him, but she needed his fire to warm the cold she had become. Nothing else seemed to matter – this was his dream and she existed only to make it happen, to bring his revelation to power and life.

She and Vice, craftsmen both, workers of flesh and metal.

Now, though, Maugrim had gone. Vice was stood behind her, his presence sharp and cruel. She turned, looked over her shoulder at the elaborate and deliberate scarring that carved patterns in his pale skin, at his thin white fingers blackened with blood and metal shavings. When he spoke, he was as cold and distant as the white moon.

“You’ve failed.”

“Yes.”

His chill voice was rich with a thousand layers of intonation that her blunt Grasslander ears would never pick up. Raised in almost pure darkness, Kartian culture communicated by sound and by touch. His scars were his identity, his rank and family, and the marks of his pure skill.

“It can’t be done.” Her voice caught on a sob and she found she was angry – with herself, with Vice’s blame and scorn, with the insanity of what she faced. She had no sense of time – of day and night, of sleep and hunger – her sunless world had become pain and torment and failure. The screaming of flesh and the scraping of metal.

Maugrim’s fire.

She feared him, needed him; she tumbled in his wake and she hated herself for it. When he was gone, she resented him and raged silently against him; in his presence, she would do anything to please him.

She looked at the corpse of the girl, at her glittering carapace of metal-scaled skin.

“It can’t be done. The trauma’s too severe, too much blood...” Her voice was a whisper of horror at what she was doing.

Vice said only, “We start again. Maugrim should be told.” The accusation in his tone was as heavy as metal itself. He turned and walked away, quiet as a final breath.

Watching him leave, Amethea felt her heart retract in fear. Maugrim would be angry with her... but there was nothing she could do, no way she could make this happen.

I can’t do this... I can’t...!

Helpless, she walked through the twisted, narrow tunnels to her chamber.

* * *

She was drying her hands when the doorway rolled back.

His anger was tangible, she could taste it, feel it – it blazed from him raw and red. Water dripped sparkling from her skin. She backed away, found herself babbling, “I tried, I swear, I...!”

He wasn’t listening. Two steps, he had one hand round her throat, her back pressed hard to the warm, smooth stone. She breathed swift and shallow, a caught animal, wild-eyed. His predatory smile was primal, an unholy firelight burned in his eyes.

She knew that she hated him. And yet she was gasping at his touch, and wanting...

Somewhere in her heart, there was a tiny fragment of defiance, Why do you let him do this why do you let him do this? But his intensity was beyond her. When he was this close, she burned.

His hand on her throat squeezed; his expression a promise of danger.

The pressure was just enough to show his strength. She bared her neck to him as if he were a bweao.

“Please...!” she gasped, but no longer knew what she was asking for.

He let her go.

Her knees went, she slid to the floor. Every time – every time in his presence! He robbed her of her thoughts – all she wanted to do was make him happy.

This had to stop.

The stones beneath her were blood-warm, oddly comforting. She spread her hands on them, steadying herself.

Maugrim slammed a fist into the flat rock of the wall. He spun towards her.

“Why?” he demanded. “I’ve got every resource, every insight. I’ve done all the calculations, I know this can happen. I’m missing something, sweetheart, what is it?” Blood oozed from his fingers where his rings had bitten his skin. “This damn world plays tricks on me!”

She knew she should get up, should get up now, but the stone beneath her hands was strong, oddly reassuring.

“What you’re trying to do... is alchemically impossible,” she said. “Flesh can’t grow into metal. Metal’s lifeless – all I’ve got is another experiment, dying before my eyes, I...”

“You’ll fix this, little lady. You’re the doctor, you can make this happen.” He came to one knee, right in front of her. One bleeding knuckle raised her chin to look up at him. He was overpowering. “I need you, Amethea. I’ll get you anything you want.”

Need you. There was a bite in her voice as she said, “Or I’ll be next?”

That made him smile, like the edge of a dirty knife.

“I’m running out of time. And patience. I know I can make this happen.”

She heard herself defy him – “You wouldn’t!” – even though she knew he absolutely would.

He laughed, a sound like a snarl. He put his hands on her shoulders, pushing her back to the wall and leaned in so she could feel his breath on her cheek.

He said softly, “It’s why I’m here, Thea: your world’s alchemy, your lost Elementalism – I am bringing them back to life!”

His weight was hurting. She didn’t care.

“I can’t, don’t you – ?” she began.

One hand shoved, hard. She fell back, crumpling gracelessly to the floor. In a moment, he was astride her, turning her onto her back, holding her hands easily above her head. Suddenly afraid, she struggled, but he was far too strong.

“What are you...?”

For a moment, he did nothing – just let her realise how much she was under his control. Her fright was rapidly growing – this wasn’t playing, she could feel his tightly controlled fury. She put her strength into it, writhing furiously. With a determined twist to his lips he held her down. As she subsided, his free hand stroked her jaw.

“Don’t fight me, little priestess. You know you’ll do what I want.”

His kiss was fire and heat and poison.

She twisted away, turning her head, her back arched as she pitted herself against him. He shifted his weight, let his whole body drop full-length onto hers. She could feel how hard he was – and she still responded to him, the sunrise glow between her thighs, her hips moving though she didn’t – couldn’t – want them to.

His breath was hot on the side on her throat. She felt the soft scratch of his beard. She felt his teeth.

“Oh, Gods...” Had that been her voice?

He reached down with his free hand, pulling at her skirts, at the strange, blue cotton trousers he wore. For a moment, she was fright and disbelief – yet her own body was betraying her, the anticipation of his touch was making her swell to meet him. She wanted this. Didn’t she?

He purred words in her ear, it didn’t matter what he said, the tone of his voice was flame and lust and her lips were parted, her breath catching on a whimper.