Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

For a moment, he pulled back, the lines round his eyes crinkled in a grin.

“So,” he said softly, “You’re staying here tonight?”

“Uh-huh.” She shifted her weight until she was astride him, facing him, pressed hard down and into him, her agile fingers teasing out the warriors’ knot in his hair. “Unless you had other plans?” Her raised eyebrow said it all.

“Hardly.” He pulled her closer, murmuring again at the pliancy of her body, the strength in the grip of her thighs. His thumbs brushed her nipples, hard against the inside of her garments.

She shivered, her back arched, her hips pressed forwards in a motion that made him catch his breath.

He kissed her again, his loose hair tangling round her fingers. Expectation smouldered – spiced by long returns of waiting. Gods , he felt good.

The barkeep, standing over them, coughed pointedly and held out a drop-key.

Redlock grinned. Triq was off his lap and key in hand, beaming shamelessly at a red-faced taproom, all eying their boots. Stopping long enough to pick up another skin of wine, they headed for his room, laughing like a pair of overgrown ’prentices.

* * *

The sun rose over the plainland, light slowly flowing eastwards from the grey and glittering sea.

Somewhere beneath the grass, perhaps in the very grass itself, the Elemental Powerflux of the world was awakening. Fire had roared from sky, burned grass and terhwnood and flesh. And where there was flame, so ash and death had followed.

But in this place, the grass was green, heads of windflowers bright scatterings of colour. The sun lit the dark hides of two chearl, standing picketed by a single basher, tiny under the blowing clouds of the dawn.

The creatures slept standing up, the campsite around them quiet. They flicked their ears, their great chests rumbled at their dreams.

Ecko awoke to rain, pattering gently on the stretched-taut fabric over his head.

Beside him, a curled female shape was quietly shaking. It took him a moment to focus, then he understood. Her hands over her face, Tarvi was curled around her horror, turned away from him and twisted in pain under her bedroll.

Crying for Pareus, for her patrol perished to the last man and woman.

They’d been no more than kids, for chrissakes.

They’d been so much code, mathematically generated from his previous decisions.

They’d died with courage, and screaming.

Pareus...

Jesus fucking shit.

Unsure – almost embarrassed – Ecko turned onto his back, watched the rain running down the tent sides. Pareus’s death was haunting him, and he had no fucking idea what he was supposed to do about any of it... When his sisters had turned on the waterworks, it was because they’d wanted something – attention, influence...

But the image of the tan commander, picking up his sword with half his fucking face hanging off... it was burned into Ecko’s forebrain like a brand.

Real or not, the boy’s death mattered.

It hurt , like the loss of a friend.

Carefully, he untangled the bedrolls, curled himself about Tarvi’s back. He didn’t speak – had no idea what he’d say – but his arm went over her and he brought her against his steelwire chest, his bare skin mottled the dark brown-grey of the tent fabric.

Now, she was really crying. Horror held in tight control was flooding out of her: gulping, wracking grief. She shook against him, her body soft and warm. She’d stripped down to her shift; he could feel her breast against his arm, her hair in his face, her buttocks soft in his lap.

Sternly, he asked himself what the hell he thought he was doing.

His reaction to her closeness was inevitable. His embarrassment redoubled, he tried to control it, held tight to panic... This was outside his experience, it’d been too long: he wasn’t the same person, physically, chemically, as the Tamarlaine Benjamin Gabriel who’d had the faintest fucking clue what to do with a woman...

With her this close, he was fifteen years old, for chrissakes, elated and guilty and wondering where exactly he was supposed to put his hands?

She nestled back against him, her sobs subsiding. Her softness in his lap was just too good – he knew he had to pull away but he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Somewhere in the back of his head, his own savage cynicism lashed at him – You want affirmation? Wanna feel alive? Yeah, well feel this! – but he barely dared breathe in case she moved.

Her hand reached backwards, stroked his hip, pulled him closer. His mottle-skin shivered at the touch, its colours now blending with hers. He was pushed right between her buttocks and straining at the light fabric of his pants.

Disbelief bounced somewhere between his head and his groin. This so couldn’t be happening...

She found the waistband, pushed them down, lifted the light fabric of her shift... and she was there, naked, warm, soft, wanting. He was so hard against her skin and finally, finally daring to move his hand to cup the breast so teasingly close.

She caught her breath, held his hand in place with her own.

As she turned her shoulders, he could see her profile, outlined against the lightening tent. Her mouth was open, her breathing becoming shallow. With a deft, easy twitch, she moved herself against him and rested the head of his cock against her outer lips.

Oh. Fucking. Hell.

Warning sirens screamed through Ecko’s head. He couldn’t do this, he so couldn’t do this – He’d given it up willingly when Mom’d remade him, he’d no fucking idea what that kind of adrenaline would do to his system...

But, for the life of him, he couldn’t have moved. Like a nervous virgin, he buried his face in her hair, her shoulder.

She moved her hand, parted herself for him, slipped down onto him – dear fucking God – a millimetre at a time, opening and moistening slowly as she slipped herself over him. She was tight, gripping him in smooth, sliding warmth and now he was the one shaking, his breath catching in his throat, against his black, assassin’s teeth.

She didn’t speak, whimpered in pleasure as she finally ground all the way back, taking him completely, his tightening balls resting, tickling, against her skin.

Then, with a shudder of breath, she started to fuck him in earnest.

* * *

As Redlock and Triqueta curled at last into sleep, so dawn stole westwards across the Varchinde.

Slowly, the sky paled to navy, to blue, to grey. The light crept up the trade-road towards the mountains, warmed the buildings of the ribbon-towns and the stone streets of Roviarath.

It lit the poorly fitting shutters of a cheap harbourside tavern.

Triqueta turned over, turned over again, and wondered where the rhez that headache had come from. She sat up to blink at a fully dressed Redlock, grinning over two steaming herbal mugs.

It was still raining; she could hear it on the window. She was tangled in a mess of cheap, itchy sheets. Her head hurt. As she downed the drink and got up to fumble for clothing, she wondered how he managed to look that capable on that little sleep. She splashed her face from the water jug and he chuckled at her torment.

They headed out into the morning, grimacing at the grey sky, sunk low over the mountaintops.

She was never drinking again. Really, this time.

Unaware of her rider’s pain, the little mare whuffled as Triq threw her saddle over her back – she was eager to run.

Triq sunk deeper into her cloak, wishing it would stop raining. Or hurting. Or both.

Slowly, as the morning swelled into noontide and the sun struggled to shine between the massed ranks of cloud, she began to emerge from the tensed head throb of morning-after pain.