Ecko Rising

She snarled fury, leaned forwards, ready for her horse’s move...

And the gelding stood straight up on his hind legs, his massive, cracked forehooves gleaming in the sinking sun. One caught the creature’s human face, smashing his jaw sideways into a maddened, flopping gape. Blood and spit exploded over them both.

With all her weight and power behind it, Jayr rammed the spear downwards, past her mount’s ear and into the muscled shoulder of the half-breed beast.

The point scored a red gouge in his flesh as he blocked the strike with fist and forearm. Gods, he was hugely strong. As the gelding plunged back to the ground, the creature reared in his turn, massive foreclaws extended and scrabbling.

A second spear rammed – thunk – into his horse ribs. He staggered, fell back to four claws, raking the soil into grooves of blood and fury.

What did it take to stop this thing?

One hand grabbed the spear and yanked it free. There was pain in his broken face now, rage in his eyes, righteousness where his jaw should be.

With the spear in his hands, mimicking Jayr’s grip, he went to rear.

Anticipating her command, the gelding spun to slam him with both hind hooves.

Jayr knew he’d got it wrong when he buckled under her and screamed, shattering the daylight into tumbling shards of sound.

* * *

As the creature came at her, Triqueta sheathed one of her jagged blades.

She controlled the spooked mare with an effort. The animal danced broadside, her knees high and her eyes rolling white. Fresh froth dripped from her chin.

With one hand on the pommel, Triqueta came to a combat crouch, feet on the saddle. The beast seemed to think this was funny, it was grinning – the thing had incisors as long as belt-knives.

A little closer, you accursed alchemical half-breed, a little closer...

In moving, she’d lost her contact with the mare. As she leapt like a performer from one horse’s back to the other, the mare gathered her legs and bolted – jarring Triqueta’s take-off. Instead of landing on her feet on the creature’s back, she landed and skidded, went splat on her belly, nearly going nose first over the far side.

The creature stank of sweat and flesh.

It shrieked, spat vicious defiance – his human body twisted this way and that as his hands tried to reach for her. Beneath her, his horse self plunged and kicked out, then went to rear.

Triqueta grabbed a handful of mane, pulled her body up and let one leg slide over his back. A moment later, he was tight between her knees.

And he went berserk.

Plunging, kicking, bucking, shouting wordless fury. His human torso leaned forwards, backwards. He twisted round, his hands scrabbled furiously to try and dislodge her. She was riding a whirlwind, a thunderstorm. His hair was everywhere, in her face, caught in her garments. She twisted one hand in his hair to the wrist; the other clung grimly to the serrated blade.

He fought like an unbroken wild thing, outraged and screaming. She gripped him with legs that had been riding a lifetime, rode the spasm and plunge and twist of his back. Dimly, she was aware of the gelding’s sudden scream but her focus was sharp as a bodkin, honed to a fighting point and absolute.

For a moment, he stilled, quivering.

Calm as the eye of insanity, Triqueta brought her feet under her and rose into a half crouch.

Instantly, he started again – now racing forwards, tilting left and right trying to tip her from his back, then stopping dead to buck, and buck, and buck like a overexcited foal. She was riding him like a champion charioteer, knees absorbing his motion, hand and arm overtensed and shaking with the effort of hanging on. She was panting, sweating, the sun was making the pollen itch on her skin; her eyes were dazzled by the light. As the creature tore in a desperate circle, she clung – and her heart was hammering, hammering.

He stopped again. As if he knew what was coming, he bawled wordless aggression, turned his body round to seize her by the ankles.

But it was too late. With a scream that might’ve been pure insolence, she rammed the blade straight through his neck and rasped it free, ripping out his windpipe and the front of his throat as she did so.

His anger became a bubbling hiss, an explosion of air and gore. His hands scrabbled frantically as he tried to stem the gush, his chest and ribs strained as he tried to draw breath.

Die you bastard thing!

His great body staggered, righted itself, staggered again and crashed into the grass.

Hand and blade red with the creature’s death, Triqueta jumped clear.

Her knees gave – but she was flushed, exhilarated. Head back, arms spread to the sky, she loosed the Banned’s war cry again, a shriek of triumph.

* * *

Jayr’s gelding screamed and sprang, leaping away from the creature he’d kicked at with his heels.

Jayr kept her seat – just – but the suddenness of the movement, the pitch of the horse’s cry had her grabbing for his mane, barely clinging on to her spear. For a moment, she thought he’d bolt. She craned her neck to see what had happened to him.

And blanched.

Two lots of three massive gashes had carved a wicked, deep chevron in his rump. Raw flesh bulged visibly through ripped hide. Blood was streaming across his haunches and matting his tail, running in rivulets down his legs and staining the grass to scarlet red.

Strong as he was, the gelding was shaking. His back legs quivered and she felt him falter.

But he turned to face the creature anyway.

The beast stood wild and wounded, chest soaked in blood from his crazily hanging jaw, hair stuck to his skin, eyes glittering loco in the low rays of the afternoon sun.

Right, then.

She’d been waiting for this.

She took a hold of her anger and frustration, gripped them hard and strong and swung herself deliberately out of her saddle. She thumped the gelding on his shoulder, thumped him again when he didn’t move.

When he cantered for Ress and the cart, she turned and faced the massive beast on foot.

Her heart rate was increasing now, a steady, rising thunder. She was completely aware of her body, poised on the knife-edge of motion and reaction. Above her, the monster was huge, elegantly muscled. This close, he smelled of blood and sweat and grass and pure, physical power. But Jayr burned now, her need to vent had found a focus. She pointed the spear up at him, a flagrant dare.

He raked the soil, shredding the grass. He shook his wild hair, twisted his broken face at her and made only noise.

She remained quiet, motionless. Her challenge grim and silent but for the whetted sense of rising eagerness in her chest and throat. She held the spear two-handed, close to the head to give her hard impact at short range.

Looking down at the ludicrous, puny human, he snorted through flared nostrils and snatched at her face with one extended claw.

It was almost too easy.

She ducked sideways, forwards, came up right between his two muscled forelegs. She slammed the spear straight into the socket joint.

And pushed. With every fibre of strength and determination she had.

He couldn’t articulate a scream, he hissed and bubbled. Half shoved, he stood on his hind legs.

Letting the spear go up with him, she changed her grip and pitched her strength against his. Driving the spear point deeper and using it like a lever against his bulk, she intended to topple him sideways.

The point scraped bone, dug deep into the joint. He flailed with his good leg, claw flashing, clenching aimlessly. His back claws danced, trying to keep him upright.

Both hands white, spitting curses through clenched teeth, she slowly, slowly heaved him into overbalance. She felt him sway, and then totter. The spear head tore deeper into flesh and muscle and ligament.