Ecko Rising

Three doorways down, Triqueta of the Banned watched everything.

Redlock had bootsteps that sent echoes through the grass – wherever he went, the Varchinde rippled at his presence. A curse of his reputation: he was an easy man to find.

The scrabbling sprawl of the Great Fayre spread around two thirds of Roviarath’s city wall. The other third, facing south and west, stood over the riverside – watching the point where the three tributaries of the Great Cemothen River met and merged. Here, the water was white and wild, but a skilled barge commander would know the route about the banks to reach the city’s huge stretch of wharf.

Many of the cargoes dropped here never made the city proper – they simply bled from the harbour’s edges straight into the Fayre, swelling it more with every return. Harsher than the marketplace, the harbour was savage and opportunistic; cruelty grew like salt whorls on the wood. Rumour muttered that the slave trade had also grown here – that those with no one to miss them would find themselves in the hands of the Kartian craftmasters, and that they would never see the light of day again.

But surely that was only rumour.

The Kartiah Mountains themselves seemed very close, here, huge and jagged dark. Rising harsh over the rattling planks of the harbourside, their great heads were too high to see, lost in the rain clouds. To the north and south, they folded gently into forested foothills, woven with a myriad streams. Here, they were like the wall that ended the world, fragmented into towering grey wind carvings. They were timeless, colossal and impossible stone creatures that stood silent guard over the plain.

Only the seedy stretch of the harbour’s tumbledown buildings defended the city from their dark might.

That – and Redlock.

In the returns since Triqueta had seen him, he hadn’t changed – his garments were loose, battered and patched, his distinctive hair tied in a warriors’ knot. He bore no wealth, no evidence of his birth-rank – just the axeheads, acid etched and wickedly hooked. The story went he’d taken them from some road-pirate lord.

He was still unarmoured, shockingly fast and hard hitting. Twin axes were an odd weapon choice – almost no defensive capability – but his brutal combat aggression was still as savage. He must be – what – forty-five returns? And there was no sign of his body slackening.

Skidding past her down the road, his two assailants were speaking in tones of awe.

“...Roken’ll do his nut!”

“Roken!” The younger of the two was still shaking. “I’m more scared of the Mad Axeman!”

His companion said darkly, “Looked pretty sane to me...”

Still muttering, they tucked themselves under the buildings’ overhang, grimaced at the weather, and continued onwards through the ribbon-town.

Triq waited until she could only hear the rain, then ducked out of the doorway and took a deep breath.

Told herself sternly she wasn’t nervous. Nope. Not at all.

Twisted in the muddy road, the corpse was already being picked over. The scavengers scuttled, hunched and dripping, out of her way.

She bounced up the step, shook her wet hair, creaked open the door. Waited for her desert eyes to adjust to the poor light.

Definitely not nervous.

Before her, the room was worn: trade-road dust permeated every corner, stirring lazily with the draught. As the door closed, it drifted to settle on knife-scored tables and benches, on scattered, silent drinkers and a dirty, spit-stained floor.

Redlock didn’t look up. He was alone, sat by the empty fireplace, bloodied and filthy boots on the table and cracked terhnwood goblet in hand. The sight of him sent a shock through her blood. She told herself sternly to ignore it. As her vision adjusted, she realised he looked older – more white lines at the corners of his eyes, more white threads through the knot of his hair.

But he was still Redlock, solid, practical, square shouldered; road-worn skin creased by boyish humour. The sight of him thrilled and buoyed her.

The lurker behind the bar grunted warily, eying her Banned leathers.

“Came too late to help, then?”

In the quiet room, the sentence was bright, brittle.

She defied embarrassment with a chuckle.

“Not that you needed any.”

“Triq?” For a moment, he stared as if she were about to vanish – a Varchinde vision, a shimmer of sun. Then he dumped the goblet and grabbed her wrist, stood up to cover her in a huge hug and pound on her shoulder. “Gods’ teeth, what’re you doing in this dump?” He stood back, gripping her arms. “Let me look at you, mad wench. You don’t look any different. And those rocks are still damned ugly!”

“I’ll kick your arse.” She shoved him affectionately, touched the gemstones in her cheeks. “I’m here looking for you – stuff you need to know.” She had no idea where to begin. “Sit yourself down, Red, you’ll need more wine.”

The barkeep scuttled out with a faded skin. Redlock filled his goblet for her, took a swig from its neck.

“Ack. Stuff tastes like piss.”

“Probably is.” Triq grinned at him. “Pull up a bench, you oversized grunt – this is going to take a while.”

* * *

It took a while.

As Triq told, at last, how they’d brought Feren to Roviarath and what Larred Jade’s response had been, Redlock was elbows on the table, hand on his forehead shielding his eyes.

It was dark when she was finally done. Tallow candles gave grey smoke and bad light, two empty wineskins lay shrivelled on the tabletop.

Triq laid a slender, sunshine hand on his muscled forearm. “You okay?”

“Thinking.” For a moment, Redlock didn’t move. Then he looked up at her from under his brows, his expression stone sober, his mouth a dangerous line. “Feren died?”

“Jade tried everything.”

“Then we go straight for the Monument.” His decision was absolute. “We’ll scout the ground and locate the creature – whatever the rhez it is.”

“What, now?” Triq chuckled at him. “I only just got here!”

“First light.” He wasn’t laughing. “The horse I’ve got’s solid, he’ll run. If you look after him and we don’t stop, we’ll do the Monument in – what – two days?”

“He’s not a Banned horse, Red, you’ll run him into the ground.” Triq snorted. “This monster –”

“Is history.” His expression was grim, brown eyes glittering in the candlelight. “You offed two of them, how much bigger’s this one? We can take him, no worries. The mares’ll scatter – you know that – shouldn’t be too hard for the soldiers to mop them up.” He flicked an eyebrow and grinned, sharp as an axe- edge. “And I guess we’d better find Feren’s teacher while we’re at it.”

“You’re crazed.” No, he hadn’t changed. He was resolute, forthright – a man with no concept of “impossible”. She grinned at him, shaking her head. Candlelight reflected from the stones in her cheeks. “You and I?” she asked. “By ourselves?”

“You’re damned right ‘by ourselves’ – don’t want your noisy lot messing it up.” He laid his callused hand along her jaw, gently turned her to look at him. “I’ve known Feren since he was a knee-biter. When he was five, I made him an axe with a soft leather head – he and my daughter Raevan used to play ‘road-pirates’ round the orchards.” The touch was gentle, but his insistence fierce. “Jade’s a smart bastard.”

“I’m coming with you, bet your life on it,” she told him. “That monster’s huge. Feren said it was terrifying.”

He flickered a smile, and his thumb stroked her cheek. “So am I.”

For a moment, they were eyes on eyes, breathless, waiting.

Heart suddenly thumping, she turned into his hand, kissing the skin of his palm. When he didn’t move, she slipped her mouth around the tip of his thumb and ran her lips and tongue over him, her eyes catching his with a mischievous gleam.

“So are you, it seems.” He watched her with a half smile. “You’re not a girl any more.” She bit him, taking mock offence and he laughed. He came round beside her on the bench, watched her expression for a moment, then