Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

“It’s all over, love, all over. No need to worry now. Let’s get you a wash, and some clean kit – look at those big blue eyes and all that pale hair, you’re too pretty to be this much of a mess.”

Feren had fallen to the grasses, his hand gone from hers. “No...” She shook her head, breaking the contact – the thud of renewed pain helped her focus. “And... anyway... get off me.”

For a moment, it seemed the man chewed the side of his mouth. Then he caught her eyes again and smiled at her.

“Poor love, bloody stallion hit you like a wrecking ball – you’re confused.”

She was backing away – but the chamber was eerie, too close, too small. The sweat on her skin was like a glaze. “And why’s it so hot in here?”

“All right, all right, look.” He reached to close the gap between them, but she twitched back further – the stone in the wall was warm. “Baythunder – that great beastie you met outside – is barking, right? He shot your mate, liberated your chearl and left you with a dirty great clonk on your skull. You can’t get home to Xenok like you are.”

She found she was looking at him, feeling the warmth of his sympathy and watching his expression. As he reached again to brush the tears and blood and dirt from her face, she allowed him to touch her – and his heat shot through her flesh.

She caught her breath.

“That’s more like it,” he said softly. His smile deepened, showed the tips of his teeth.

“Who are you?” The question was quiet, her attention was all in his eyes.

“Maugrim,” he said. “I’ve had other names – but that one... suits me.” His hand stroked the side of her throat. “Welcome to the world’s new beginning.”

There is need of a healer.

For a moment, she held the strangest feeling that something had gone amiss. The plains, the Monument, a hand slipping from hers...

But she couldn’t remember. Maugrim’s hand was in her bloodied hair, his eyes like embers. He closed his fingers about the strands and pulled her head back – abrupt, not quite painful. She found herself breathing hard, his fire lighting her blood, a sudden, hot sensation of want...

“All you have to do,” he said, “is help me.”

She heard herself answer him, “I’ll help you. What can I do?”

The predatory smile broke through his beard like a blade.

* * *

Amethea dreamed.

She dreamed of heat. And lust. And passion. And power.

When she awoke, her vision was so full of flame she had to squint to realise the small, stone chamber was dim, the rocklight faltering.

The palette beside her empty.

She was still wet, sweetly aching from the repeated impact of his body on hers, skin and sheets were soaked in sweat.

The thought of him brought a lightning shiver of adrenaline, a rush of excitement, exultation that was new.

She sat up, his smile on her face – and there was no headache. Raising her fingertip to the wound in her eyebrow, she was unsurprised to find it gone – a scar like a sear in its place.

Heal and Harm, little lady, the oldest rule.

She had been going somewhere – had lost something, was looking for something? A faint sense of disquiet tickled her cheek like a moth... then – flash – was gone.

Whatever it was had been cleansed, inside and out. For the moment, her wants were assuaged, she needed only to brush work-roughened fingers over smooth sheets and recall the blaze of Maugrim’s need.

He had gone; he remained. She could smell him on her skin. Her head was full of him.

Disdaining to wrap her slender nakedness, she stood up.

About her, the chamber was even smaller than she’d thought, perhaps five paces in each direction. If she raised her arm, she could touch the ceiling. The walls and floor were all flat stone, wide regular shapes set in soil, smaller shapes packed in corners. In places, there were carved patterns, but the markings were unclear in the faltering light. That she was underground was evident – but where?

The air was hot and still. This was not the vast rock networks of the Kartiah Mountains, nor the open stone quarries of Belegandyne or Darash. She laid a hand against the wall, feeling the blood-warmth. The room was too small, yet there was a vastness around it that lost her; it felt...

In spite of the heat, shivers prickled her skin. A sudden, hollow rush sucked the memories of Maugrim from her and left her standing, minute and utterly alone, a fragmentary mote against the all-might of the stone arrayed about her.

It felt like a tomb, ancient, vast and infinite. It felt like a church. It felt as though Maugrim’s mesmeric presence were too tiny to be noticed.

It felt as though it was waiting.

With a shudder as deep as her soul, she pulled away from the stonework, picked up the sheet and cloaked herself in it. She was chilled through, inexplicably miniscule and terrified.

She had been looking for something – !

“You’re awake, love.” The wall was rolling closed behind him. “I’ve got you some water and some clean kit.”

In his presence, the chamber was warm, her fears ashes. The sheet tumbled to the floor and she welcomed him with open arms and lips.

He kissed her briefly, squeezing a buttock, and pushed her back.

“You need to wash and dress, sweetheart, and quickly. And you need to listen.”

“Of course.” She took the jug, the garments he had chosen for her and hoped she could please him. The embers in his eyes stroked her naked skin, leaving the warm touch of trailing fingertips.

He turned away.

“You’re a healer, little lady, herbalist, apothecary and teacher. And Xenotian – meaning you’ve worked your sweet arse off for those qualifications, and you’re tougher than you look.” He turned back with that predatory smile, taking the sting from the comment. Then he said, “Answer me something, love. Does it ever get to you?”

“Get to me?” The phrase was unfamiliar. She took a cloth from the jug and tried to unclot the bloodstreaks from her hair. Chill water ran down her hot skin, evaporating before it stained the floor. The air thickened.

Maugrim raised one hand and his metal rings flashed in the rocklight – one was the fanged skull of some mystery creature, one a grey-black stone that gleamed oddly metallic.

“Get to you, love.” His expression twisted, though the casual tone of his voice didn’t change. “The whiners, the needers, the hypochondriacs, the neurotics, the weak-willed and the desperate. ‘I’m depressed, I’m lonely, I’m fat, I’ve got to stop smoking – but I’m too bloody feeble to do it myself.’ They don’t try, they don’t learn. They wallow in self-pity. They come to you so you’ll take it away – but they don’t really want to give it up. Because it’s all the meaning they have.” His smile deepened, a rush of warmth made her gasp. “C’mon love – you have them here too. It’s not wrong to resent them.”

Resent – !

In the heart of the heat, a flare of shock and shame – then all lost to wonder. She found herself laughing like release; she wanted to kiss him.

“Yes, yes, sometimes.” How had he understood? The darkest corner of her healer’s soul – illuminated by his firelight and it was all right, it was all right. “When your life is others... sometimes you do just want to say to them –”

“Get a fucking grip!” He took her shoulders, enthused at her. “You’re no saint, little priestess. In your heart, you’re just like I am. Don’t you look at them and just... wish...”

The sentence tailed into a silence laden with suggestion. He smiled, kissed her, withdrew. She wanted to reach to him, to – oh Gods – tell him the secret place he’d just touched, but his gaze had gone. It was on the chamber, stroking the faint marks on the walls.