Ecko Rising

Waiting.

Slowly, the mountains’ twilight swallowed them. Ahead, a nacreous, yellowish glow swelled upon the horizon. The thunder rumbled again, louder and closer – reddish light flashed behind the clouds. As the sun died on the spiked peaks of the Kartiah, she drew both blades, jumping at every swish in the grass.

“Triq.” Redlock reined his beast and pointed. “Look.”

Before them, the ground swelled upwards at last, lifting a jumble of massive, fallen stones to the swollen grey sky. In the gathering darkness, they gleamed like the mother of all rocklights, a powerful crepuscular glow, eerie and shivering Triq’s skin. Around them, the rain sparkled as it fell and the grass was all stark light and black shadow.

The surrounding bank was high and dark – lifeless.

She had never been this close. All Feren’s fears clamoured to be heard and she rode slowly upwards into that strange light, compelled and awed and silent.

The lightning sheeted again, blood red behind the glowering clouds.

Even fallen, the stones were immense. She’d no idea how they could’ve been brought here, built – allowed to crumble.

Forgotten.

Halting beside her, Redlock asked, “Can you feel it?”

“Feren said...” Triq was drowned out by thunder. She swallowed and tried again. “Feren said he heard it sing, said it was sad, deep and lonely.”

“Doesn’t sound lonely to me.” Redlock chuckled irreverently and his laughter made her smile. “You ask me? It sounds mighty pissed off.”

She was about to laugh with him when movement caught her eye: something big, running in the rain. Her heart hammered with certainty, but her voice was steady as she told him, “Talking of pissed off...”

There they were, three of them, huge and hair flying, highlighted into monstrousness by the Monument’s illumination. The thunder rumbled as they came in. They were fast – fast – racing hard up the far side of the rise.

Dear Gods, they were huge. Bigger than the scouts had been, far, far bigger.

Triq’s mare lifted her head, flared her nostrils and shook her mane, blowing rainwater. She was lifting her knees high, dancing on the spot like a Padeshian street girl. Triq let out her breath, let out the fear.

“They’re coming.”

“I see them.” Rock steady, Redlock slid to the ground, axes in hands glittering with cold assurance. “Distract it.”

She mustered a laugh. “You’re loco.” For a second, she stared at him, trying to make him meet her gaze – but he was watching the shapes, the light gleaming cold from their skin as they came closer. “Red–”

“Later,” he said. “We’ve got guests.”

In the moment between one heartbeat and the next, between the flash of lightning and the rumble of thunder, the stallion was there. He was huge, far heavier and broader than the scouts had been. His horse body was twice the mass of her little mare, his human torso massively muscled and sparkling with water.

He was beautiful.

And, Feren had been right, he was terrifying.

His thick mane of hair was plastered to him, clinging to the lines of his chest and shoulders. His eyes were terrible, more than human and less than animal – he was utterly crazed and he celebrated it.

He screamed at her, his incisors too long, like a bweao’s. His claws rent the wet soil. Around him, the thunder crashed again.

Was this what Feren had seen?

Triq was aware that Redlock had moved, she didn’t look at him. Instead, she stood in her stirrups and screamed straight back at the monster – shrill and utterly insolent.

And the stallion laughed at her.

“Little lady,” he said. “Lady of the Banned. You who slew my scouts, my sons. Little creature thinks she can fight?”

Like his horse body, his human chest, his voice was perfect – powerful, sensual. It was deep, a throb she felt in her blood. It robbed her of words, and, for a moment, she was overpowered by his presence. Her mouth moved, but no sound emerged.

“And you, warrior, you smell like the other one. You seek to punish me? Little human – you’re creature-born, forced to live with whatever your sire and dam could spare you. I? Am so much more!”

In the rain, the two flanking shapes had flashed past, trapping them. Triq kept them in her awareness, but her attention was on the stallion.

She found her voice and shouted, “There was a girl, an apothecary. What did you do with her?”

“She was needed. To heal flesh.” The word was a hiss, spat between his predator’s teeth. “She belongs to us now.”

“What did you do with her?”

“We gave her a home. A family. Purpose. There will be none of this for you.”

The thing was crazed, the light reflected broken from its eyes.

Triq shrieked at it, “I don’t know what the rhez you are or why you were made – but you’re wrong. Half creature, life all twisted! The grass has no place for you!”

With a fluid motion, the great beast raised his longbow, nocked a flightless shaft like a spear, drew back the string.

“This place is mine! I was charged to come here; to guard the cathedral, the centre, the work that happens here. You, creature-born – your time is done.” The broadhead was pointed straight at Triqueta’s throat. “He knows you are coming.”

“He?”

The stallion laughed, the thunder crashing through his mockery, the sparkling rain soaking his mane to darkness and shadow.

“Enough,” he said. “You want to challenge me, little lady?”

He put the final pressure on the bowstring, released the shaft.

Triq threw herself sideways, hanging half out of her saddle. It skimmed past her so close the broadhead sliced a red line in the side of her neck. Her mare stood straight up, raindrops shattering on her forehooves – tiny against the almighty chest of the beast...

But the stallion stopped dead, staring at something behind her.

What the rhez?

She twisted in her saddle, blades gripped in her hands. The mare plunged back to the soil, ears flat back and hooves tamping.

There was something else out here?

Beside her, there was movement, down in the grass. Something dark, shadowed; something Triq couldn’t see.

Something that threw two broken halves of arrow shaft straight up into the monster’s face, daring it.

“Y’know, for a centaur, you’re a lousy fuckin’ shot.” The voice was harsh, oddly accented, a rasp that tore into her ears. “Whoever made you? Shoulda had better blueprints.” In the grass, in the rain, two red lights blinked up at Triqueta. “Hey,” the voice said. “Good to see ya. I think you lost some dice.”

What?

“Whatever the rhez you are.” Redlock’s voice. “Identify yourself.”

“We’re your three’n’fourpence,” it said. “Looks like we’re gonna dance.”

18: FOUNDERSDAUGHTER