Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

But she was smarter than that. With a deep breath that swelled her cleavage, she bawled, “Okay you lot! This round’s on the house!”

Loose cheers scattered the aggression, the brawl dissolved before it began. As Ecko returned to his point on the bar, Karine winked at him. “Cost us less than the furniture.”

In spite of himself, he chuckled, his adrenals uncoiling.

Okay, Eliza. Let’s see what you do with this...

He had the goldie girl’s dice in his lithe, mottled hand.

* * *

In the chaos, Triqueta of the Banned had slipped deftly – and tactfully – out of the tavern’s front door.

Swift and silent, like the final flicker of daylight, she’d untethered her little palomino mare and left the dusty noise of the ribbon-town behind.

Free.

The sun had gone, sunk to its death upon the distant Kartiah, and rich blue darkness drove the last of the light to frame the mountaintops. Triq tightened her knees on the mare’s warm, bare back and she rode away from the ribbon-town, from the Bard’s ale and music, from the squabbling drunks of the Range Patrol and her own Banned family.

Much as she loved them, there were just times...

In the midst of the almost-brawl, she’d lost her fireblasted dice. She’d split her knuckles on that sonofamare’s face and the young patrolman she’d had her eye on had wandered away... Triq knew when her luck had run out. It wasn’t her night and she was better off wrapping her thighs around the flesh they needed the most.

As a kid, Triqueta had been fostered in the unrolling, ramshackle poverty of a trade-road ribbon-town. She’d been quick with feet and fingers before she could count. At six, she’d returned to her mother in the Banned – but held to the philosophy of her errant desert sire: celebrate your life, live for the now, take what you will, but hurt none.

Above her, two moons slowly rose to sail the ripples of cloud. Oblivious to the world below and ever in opposition, they lit the wild grass to a brilliant shimmer of light.

Like the stones in her cheeks, the desert was still in her blood. She was wild souled and happiest under the sky.

She’d not seen her sire since she was a kid – not even when her mother was killed by scuffling road-pirates. As Triq’s little mare cantered way out across the edge of the sleeping farmlands, she let drop only an idle thought – that family was what you made it.

It made her smile – a touch of the warmth of the red sands at the centre of the dark Varchinde.

In the far distance, she caught a burst of laughter from the rugged Banned campsite – doubtless Syke, Banned commander, was hosting the remaining Range Patrol soldiers in a booze-laden campsite party. Syke had many and interesting ways to stay on the right side of the local soldiery. Triq chuckled quietly and leaned windwards, steering the mare away from the campsite, the tavern, the river, the final scattering of Roviarath’s tithed farmland. Uncaring of the danger – she was Banned for the Gods’ sakes! – she headed north-east, for the open plain.

The little mare seemed glad of the run. She lengthened her stride, mane flying, shoulders churning with power and warmth. The grass parted for her, whispered as she passed. The wind raced cold past Triq’s skin and her chuckle became a laugh, gleeful in the emptiness.

Sensing her rising mood, the horse put her heart in it and began to really run.

They left the roll of rural life behind them. The night was the sound of the grass, the strength of the animal that ran through it, her rhythm swift and clean. In the vastness of the dark, the moons, brother and sister cursed to be ever in opposition, rode with them, shining cold. Triq loved to lose herself in the Varchinde, the desolation elated her. She was tiny against the measureless grass, the infinite sky, yet its euphoria was with her and she wasn’t alone.

The sounds of the campsite had all but faded. Triq leaned back, bringing the mare to a halt.

She sat, breathing.

Faintly over the sound of the river, she could still hear them – a scattering of distant hilarity snatched away by the wind. If she looked back, she could see the tiny, red fire-points of the campsite, and the faint, glimmering skein of the ribbon-town’s windows. Brighter in the dark mid-air was the great, white eye of the Lighthouse Tower at Roviarath, heart and hub and lynchpin of the Varchinde’s lifeblood trade. “Here is help,” it said, “find me to find safety.”

Triq turned her back on it and tightened her thighs. The mare moved into an easy walk.

Banned and soldiers faded into the grass.

Away from rocklight and fire, the moons dusted the sea of sward to yellow and white, washing past her like water. The mare walked calmly, her head up and her ears forward. Triq rested in the ease of her movements. She’d known this creature from a foal, raised her and trained her – and she was a friend.

Face turned to the wind, eyes closed, Triq rested her hands on the warmth of her soft hide.

At the gesture, the mare stopped, throwing her head up and back. One forehoof thudded uneasily. Triq tensed, eyes snapping open, hand going for her small belt-blade. Her thighs urged the creature forwards.

The little mare refused. She danced back several paces, snorting.

What...?

Nervousness tickled her skin, Triq trusted the animal’s moods instinctually, relied upon her. If she smelled something, something was there.

She was chillingly aware of how small they were – herself and the horse, two sparks of life – tiny in the emptiness.

She had come out without her saddle, no tack, no weapons – only a belt-knife more useful for cutting dinner than pouncing bweao. Holding tight to her alarm and keeping absolutely silent, she stroked the mare’s shoulder and allowed her to back up. It was a Range Patrol, perhaps, or maybe late-night road-pirates. The big predators didn’t come this close to a ribbon-town – and the recent rumours of monsters were tavern-tales to scare the city dwellers.

Weren’t they? There were no such things as monsters.

She listened.

Wind, water. Grass. She shivered – how had it got so cold? – and made herself sit absolutely still. Her shoulders prickled with tension.

Slowly, she turned around.

But there was only the white eye of the lighthouse, the rippling wash of the light.

Triq’s heart hammered, but her gaze was steady. She inhaled and the slim muscles across her shoulders tensed, flexed. Belt-knife or no, she wasn’t about to open the odds on being any beastie’s late-night snack.

Silence.

Then something moved.

Close by.

She turned sharply but didn’t see it, it was below the level of the grass tops. The gentle wind-ripple of light was uninterrupted – she had no idea where it was. The mare’s ears were flat against her skull and she lifted her forehooves, skittering like a Padeshian dancer.

Was there a bweao, belly-down in the darkness? Some nightmare creature of legend and fang? Triq’s heels were holding the mare – just. If she relaxed the command, she’d gather her legs and flee.

She was fast – could she outrun it?

“Please...”

The word was barely a hiss, and utterly unexpected. It froze the breath to the sides of her throat.

For a moment, she was so damned scared she couldn’t move.

“Please...!”

It came from in front of her. She still couldn’t see it. Any minute now it was going to call her by name...

That was it – she was getting the rhez out of here.

“Please help me!”

Instead of calling her name, the voice sobbed, gave the cry of something despairing beyond endurance. She heard movement, clumsy. The moonlight scattered as something shifted in the grass.