Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

Then she heard the drum cease as the lad was pulled, yowling, from his saddle. His horse fled in a clatter of stirrups.

Without a thought, she rode the creature down.

But the gelding under her baulked. He backed up, throwing his head and snorting, trying to drag the rein from her hand. As she fought to keep the bit out of his teeth, she felt a savage rip in her calf muscle.

The drummer was screaming like a young girl, high and terrified – then, abruptly, silent.

Biting back tears of frustration, sorrow, fury, she yanked her leg out of reach, tried to kick.

But it had her by the ankle, talons sinking into her flesh. Its other hand grabbed her thigh, crushing, claws penetrating the muscle and making her bite back a scream of her own.

She drew her belt-blade, slashed at its stone wrist, watched the blade crack and dangle uselessly from its central fibres. Spitting “No, no, no”, she jammed the remnants into the thing’s red eye socket.

Its claws dug harder. It was trying to drag her out of her seat, rending huge wounds, deep in the front of her thigh. The pain was savage, blood stained her breeches, blackness laughed at the edges of her vision.

The last thing she saw, as the smoke swirled and parted, was the glow of the sun, dying slowly upon the jagged peaks of the Kartiah Mountains.

* * *

Hooves thundering, Jade charged back into the smoke.

To ruin.

His defence was shattered, his Fayre in bright flame. Riderless horses cantered through the smoke and were gone. Spearmen, those that remained, huddled in groups, eyes streaming and terrified. Many had fled.

My Gods , Jade thought, what have I done?

His banner was dull in the smoky air, the grass around him was burning, the mud underfoot a churn of death and gore. He heard groans, whimpers of wordless pain that tore at his heart.

How had this happened? How had this ... ?

The dusk breeze plucked at the banner, tumbled the smoke about him. Through a momentary eddy, he saw a cluster of the creatures converge on the gatehouse – on the massive, wooden double gates, closed and bolted for the first time in his memory. Archers ran to the muster-call.

He had no doubt the gates would burn.

And after them, the city.

“Samiel!” The cry was crazed, but he had nothing else left. “You can’t do this!”

And the Varchinde answered him.

He heard hooves: a thundering that shook the ground, flashed sparks from the grass-devouring flames. Through the wall of smoke and mist and horror, he could see shapes – hazy, mounted. And the air...

With a high, ululating war cry that echoed back from the city walls, they were there – exploding through the smoke, bridleless, savage, utterly disordered.

His black mare on her hind legs, bellowing defiance, Syke of the Banned wheeled his arm above his head and sent them as a flat-out run, slamming into the rear of the creatures assaulting the gates. They didn’t bother with weapons – the mounts fought for themselves, forehooves slashing, back hooves shattering stone with hammer blows that exploded dust into the air.

He heard a ragged cheer from the archers on the wall.

Reining his mare to a halt, the Lord of Roviarath stared at the war-Banned, heard their yowls and catcalls, wondered at the sheer viciousness of the attack.

He had the oddest feeling they were enjoying themselves.

One hand on his monster recurved bow, Syke brought his snorting, prancing mare close by.

Jade looked at him, stunned. Said only, “Why?”

“Triq,” the Banned commander replied. He gave the Lord a shrewd, narrow-eyed look, then turned to watch the ramshackle mess about him. “Her mare came back. I saw these bastards running, I figured she’d failed. She died – Ress and Jayr – because I didn’t rally when I should’ve done.” He let off an idle snap-shot at a lumbering stone creature, hitting it neatly in the eye socket. Its stone head turned to look at him. “Well, we’re rallied now.”

“You couldn’t have come just a fragment earlier?” Jade was starting to laugh – at his reprieve, at the end of the grief and the horror. He laughed as though he were crying. “They’re not dead, you fool – though your guilt’s appreciated...” He stopped, choked by smoke and relief.

“Guilt, my arse.” Syke’s denial may as well have been a confession. Around them, the Banned were scattering the stone assailants into tumbling rubble. Spearmen were laughing, coughing, picking themselves up. He heard the cry to rally from close to the wall.

Jade managed a grin, though it struggled to reach his eyes – they’d seen too much.

“The scouts said the Monument’s collapsing – the light’s going out.” He clapped the grey-eyed man on the shoulder – old friend, old adversary, familiar thorn in the CityWarden’s side. “Be proud of Triqueta – she won.”

“So did you, you daft old sod,” Syke told him. “So did you.”

29: LOREMASTER

FHAVEON, THE MONUMENT

Roderick was woken by a stealthy rap-rap-rap on his door.

He lay still, taut in the darkness, listening.

He’d been dreaming – again. Dreaming of the Ryll, glory and tumble and sparkle and spray. Dreaming of the very mind of the Goddess – too much for mortal man to bear. The aged Guardians stood watch, but had they never touched the water.

Somehow, he had seen the waterfall with more clarity than he ever had. Yet the image had been split, broken – had he seen it through some cracked casement, some twisted reflection?

Rap-rap-rap.

This time, the noise brought him fully awake.

Like a child afraid of figments in the night, he held himself breathless and stock-still.

Rap-rap-rap!

The noise was hastier this time, almost nervous.

Pulse racing now, the Bard swung himself into a sitting position, put his bare feet on the cold stone floor. He rubbed his eyes, shoved his filthy mass of hair out of his face, and then got up and padded over to the door. He was stiff, his legs ached from lack of use.

He said, softly, “What?”

“Roderick! You’re awake!”

The voice was unknown to him.

Puzzled, he replied, “Yes. Who is it? What do you want?”

“Hang on.”

There was the sound of a drop-key being lifted. A moment later, a tiny crack of yellow rocklight touched his discarded black boot and then spread outwards in an arc across the floor.

Startled, he backed away. “Who are you? Who’s there?”

The crack opened wider, and the light blinded him after days in the gloom. Raising an arm to shield his eyes, he saw that the incoming figure was a soldier, a young woman, pale and furtive.

And the last, cold shock doused him.

They have come for me. No Ecko, no Rhan, no hope.

He found himself shrinking back against the wall, sudden fear robbing him of breath.

It was over.

The after-images of his dreaming broke loose, spilled free and made the hairs on his arms prickle. Faced by the soldier that had come to take him to his death, he was still shaking at fragments unnamed – something about a creature of crystal and fire?

The shattered-window image came again – through it, he could see the waters of the Ryll clearer than he had ever done, clearer than even the Guardians had ever witnessed. It was as though there was something in the way, some conduit or device, something that both enhanced and defended his flawed mortal vision –

A cold, hard object was being pressed into his hand.

Startled, he looked down.

The door had opened enough to let the soldier slide through and pull it almost-closed behind her. She was pressing a weapon into the Bard’s anxious grip, a long, narrow poignard, real white-metal, with a nasty-looking point. For a moment, Roderick blinked at it, baffled – was the city offering him another way out?