Ecko Rising

sudden line of tension across his throat.

Fuck!

The creature wasn’t as dumb as it looked – it homed in on the sound instantly. A hefty yank didn’t free him – the fucking Bogeyman’s luck was deserting him. It was too strong to tear, too complicated to unfasten. He tugged at it again.

Harder.

Nothing.

“Now, I see you, shadow-creature!”

It was behind him, right over him, its claws gouging angry chunks out of the soil.

He heard the other one scream as the horsewoman’s blade slammed home; he saw the rising rear of the wounded stallion, saw the axeman fighting, weapons in hand. Saw him go down, churned beneath the beast’s claws.

Holy shit...

Then the horizon exploded.

* * *

What the rhez...?

Triqueta saw the light from the Monument rise, saw it burn with yellow nacre as the stones caught alight, blazing into the clouded sky. The clouds returned the glare, their underbellies burned with furious shades of flame.

The air grew tight; she couldn’t breathe.

The injured beast was grappling for her, trying to seize her wrists, her hair – anything to drag her out of the saddle. She ripped her serrated blade free of its flesh and slashed, barged, driving it back.

It was weakening, starting to falter.

The light swelled, dancing into the sky in great, leaping waves of colour that played over and above the swollen grey clouds. Where they parted, the air was burning. It wasn’t fire – it had no heat – it was pure, raw elemental power, leaping from the broken Monument into the covering storm.

As her own foe fell, she saw Redlock go down under the claws of the stallion.

* * *

He didn’t understand how the beast could still be fighting.

It was on him, a blur of legs and claws and trailing guts that tumbled him into cold soil and thick grass.

Horses wouldn’t trample – unless they were trained, or had no choice. This thing was different: those damned claws were huge and it was going to shred him meat from bone.

He tried to break sideways, get out from underneath it – but the claws were everywhere, slamming down beside him. One came down on his booted foot and he snarled, slashed the axe clean through the leg muscle.

He tasted blood as it sprayed his lips. He rolled clear.

Just as Triqueta and the mare crashed into the beast’s flank, then spun and thumped it with both horse heels. It staggered, caught its claw in a reel of spilling intestine and staggered again.

With one almighty sweep, shouting wordless into the storm, Redlock smashed its other foreleg.

Tangled in its own spewing life, it fell.

And the sky above it was burning.

* * *

Ecko saw the centaur stallion crash to the ground, heard the injured mare scream denial. He saw the horizon aflame, saw the Borealis screaming through clouds, lighting their darkness to fantastical colour. Memories of dreams, memories of memories – fire raining from the sky.

But there was still one of these bastard things right over him, her face twisted with hate, her hands reaching through the grass, one huge claw raised to snatch his head straight off his cloak-caught shoulders.

His boosting was down: he was exhausted, nauseous. His targeters tracked the assault even as they plotted the trajectory to roll away. His muscles fired, spasmed – his tank was fucking empty, he had nothing left.

Through the rain, he thought he heard Tarvi calling him as she had once before.

“Ecko! Ecko!”

That fucking claw was huge.

Then a blinding concussion knocked him backwards, a sizzling flare that seared his skin. He caught the reek of burned meat as he fell, twisted awkwardly by the caught cloak. His anti-daz iris-flickered, he could still see...

...see the black and smoking shell of the centaur mare, legs twisted, cracking sticks, the ground around it blasted. At the edges of the strike, the grass burned under the rain.

And the sky...!

The clouds were alight, pulsing waves of colour played under and through them. The Monument blazed like a burning building, waves of fire leapt between sky and stone. The injured mare was racing away, dodging side to side as the clouds roiled with fury.

The stallion was struggling to right itself, but the axeman was right in its fucking face.

“You move, you’ll get one of these up each nostril. You hear me?”

The grass was burning in patches, tiny bonfires, rising smoke.

“Ecko!” Uncaring of the majesty, the destruction overhead, uncaring of the fires under her feet, Tarvi raced down the bank. She was warm, she was scared and awed and she was in his arms. She kissed him so hard she drew blood from his lip.

His pulse screamed frenzy at her closeness – suddenly his adrenals were back in play.

He held her, kissed her, felt her shake, watched the wonder over her shoulder. The world was burning, and he stood at its very edge.

He had dreamed this. He had no breath. It was incredible.

“What the rhez is going on?” The horsewoman was ducking as though the sky would harm her. “The world’s gone loco!”

“Not a fucking – !”

But even as Ecko called back, the firestorm was fading, the dancing lights failing. The clouds lost their angry pulse, the rain fell normally, solid and cool. Around them, grassfires steamed and hissed.

Gone.

Only the Monument, still glowing, nacreous and nicotine yellow – damn thing was radioactive. It stood in defiance of the stormy darkness, the wind and rain seeming suddenly, oddly calm.

Tarvi was shaking. Hell, he was shaking too. Ecko had no idea what he’d just witnessed but it sure as hell beat the laser shows of the South fucking Bank.

“Not a fucking clue,” he repeated. The clouds were empty, the rain just rain. His arms did not let Tarvi go.

* * *

On its belly, the broken centaur stallion was still massive, eyes crazed in the yellow light.

Its shoulders were broader than Lugan’s – it looked like some sort of fucking giant, crouched in the grass. It was pale, rain sheeting down its skin. Its hands supported its weight and it was weakening, struggling not to fall forwards.

But it still hadn’t quit.

“I’m Redlock, Faral ton Gattana,” the axeman said. One axe was back through its belt-ring, he held the other casually over his shoulder. “There was a boy rode out this way, ’prentice to a Xenotian healer. His name was Feren. He was my cousin.”

“I remember. He was weak and injured.” There was no surrender in the beast’s tone. It was dying, but it was challenging them to the last. “Expendable.”

“Injured, yes – but stronger than you realised.” Redlock’s axehead – was it actually steel? – glinted in the rain. Both hands were long gloves of gore, his hair and garments were covered in Christ-knew-what – he was one savage motherfucking fighter. “What happened to his teacher?”

“The healer’s mine.”

Ecko slid closer. The stallion’s core temperature was dropping fast now – it was a corpse any second.