Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

“Do it,” Jayr said.

* * *

Heat.

Tight, sweating passageways lined with smoothed rocks and a sheen of panic. Ceilings low and dark, close and choking air.

The slash of a stone blade into flesh. Spilled blood spirals inwards towards a heart of fiery, crystalline awareness. Then a rising sense of hunger and an eagerness for release.

Elemental. Sical, creature of fire. Such a thing has not been seen upon the world in a lifetime of returns.

Here in the passageways, the twisted corpse of a Kartian craftsman, shattered by huge strength. His insides have exploded from his mouth, blood covers his face and chest – he’d thrashed for a long time as he’d been slowly crushed to death.

Here, a creature created of alchemy – a crazed cross-breed of man and horse. It stands in deepening night, the Monument its backdrop, a storm raging over it... It’s colossal – and its death crouches in the grass.

Here, a man on his knees, a slim, fair-skinned woman before him, abandoned in pleasure and passion. The man is grinning like a predator, ringed fingers twisting in the soft flesh of her buttocks. She has incredibly long, black hair, thrown wildly down her back and shoulders. She cries aloud, snarls pleasure through clenched teeth...

...and the stone grows into her flesh. Even as the man withdraws, the creeping calcification reaches her throat, her face, and she is left there – head back, lips parted, frozen forever in stone orgasm.

With her final cry, the image changes.

In that rise of passion and release, the stirring Monument awakens completely: it blazes with new, raw power.

The man’s strength is complete. His rings glinting, he stands before a brazier, a broken and twisted pillar. About him is a vast, dark chamber and within it, rank upon rank, stand blunt and misshapen creatures of rock, dark silhouettes against the light. They are ancient, creatures forgotten and now wakened from long rest. There are embers in their eyes and a terrible, grinding power in their movements. The man can feel the steady pulse of the Powerflux. He can pull its might towards the centre, towards himself.

And it is glorious.

But then he realises –

A cascade of water overwhelms the vision, what the man realises is lost. Ress hears her voice again, crying denial. Her waterfall blinds him, deafens him – he knows she was trying to show him something, but she’s too powerful and the images drown him. He tries to shout, but water fills his eyes his mouth.

There!

The grass, the vast carpet of the Varchinde, all bowing towards the Monument, paying homage to the man’s potency as he pulls the World’s energy inwards, building, building his stone army...

What was she...?

Oh, my Goddess. Mother...

At its edges, at the feet of the Kartiah, the Khohan, the Khavan Circle... at the eastern shoreline, where the great terhnwood crops grew... to the far south, the forests at Gasharta, Naskala...

...death is beginning in the grass. As the energy of the Powerflux is sucked inwards by the Monument, so the edges of the Varchinde begin to perish. Rot, devastation, a wave of lifelessness sweeping inwards: the terhnwood plantations crumble and the trees are twisting in pain.

The World will die.

The waters of the Ryll bathe him in horror.

And he screams. And screams. And screams.

* * *

“Silence him!”

The Lord Nivrotar was on her feet. Jemara shaking and white faced.

Ress’s appalling shrieking rang from the ceiling, ricocheted from cold, stone walls.

Jayr held his shoulders, shouted in his face.

“Ress! Stop it! Ress!”

Then the noise fell away, collapsed into desperate, panting breaths, a hunted animal. He rasped, “This... is just... the beginning. There is no time !”

His eyes were open, stark and wide and staring. His back was arched, his hands worked aimlessly, reaching for something – or pushing something away.

No time.

“Oh, you’re so fireblasted clever.” The Banned girl challenged the Lord of Amos and the castle healer. “What the rhez did that achieve? Look at him!”

Jemara’s cheery face held fear, her hands twitched helplessly by her sides.

“I don’t know. We gave him clarity, but what he saw... ”

Nivrotar stood still, her silk-gloved forearms crossed and the fingers of one hand rapping a silent and restless tattoo.

“He was clearer – stone and flame and sex and power. Great elation and great fear. Will he stand another dose?”

Jayr glowered. “No way.”

Jemara agreed with a reluctant shrug.

“Then we can’t reach him. How do we help him free himself?”

“My Lord.” The healer was still shaking. “His mind is beyond my strength – whatever he can hear has might beyond anything I comprehend. Benign might – but such fear –”

“We must know what he sees.”

Frustrated by her helplessness, her hands itching to fight, to rip his madness out of him by the damned roots if she had to, Jayr moved to the window, to look out at the pinpoint rocklights and flambeaux of Amos stretched below. The slow roll of the river ran to either side of the palace’s island, black strips of bridges sliced its broad shine into cold squares of metal.

Above her, the air was cool and clear, the sky arced over her here as it did in the desolation of the wide Varchinde. Somewhere out there, the same moonlight shone upon Syke and the Banned, upon Triqueta racing to avenge Feren. She leaned far out of the unshuttered window, muscled belly flat against the stone sill, and allowed the breeze to touch her skin.

She didn’t understand. Her hands tightened on the windowledge. She wanted to wrest this thing from his mind and throw it to the floor and tear it to pieces. She wanted to fight –

Behind her, healer and Lord contemplated the now quietly muttering Ress. She could hear them talking, the Lord of Amos demanding answers, the healer having none to give. If only Ress was awake, he would be smarter than both of them.

If only Ress was awake.

If only –

Shit!

All three of them were caught off guard by his sudden movement.

Writhing, he had both hands clamped over his ears in an effort to shut out a sound only he could hear. His face was pale, sweat had sprung out on his skin and the blankets stuck to him as he twisted his body this way and that, trying to find release. He was gagging, perhaps trying to speak but choked with horror at what was tormenting him.

As Nivrotar turned to grasp both of his wrists and hold him down with unexpected, metal-wire strength, he forced out his cry for help, gasping for breath as he spoke...

“Rhan... no, this cannot be!”

“Jayr!”

Jumping to help, Jayr wrestled one of Ress’s ankles motionless, then held it still while she grabbed the other. As she pinned him down, muscles flexing, she caught the eyes of Amos’s Lord watching the ripple of power in her shoulders with a curious light flickering in their darkness. Only for a moment, then Ress began to struggle and howl and her attention turned back to the bed.

“Let me go! Let me go, let-me-go, let-me- go !” He was fighting them, really fighting them as if he knew they were there, but his sight was still turned inwards. “Rhan, they’ve taken Rhan. I have to tell him!”

“Who?” Nivrotar leaned right over him, her curtain of pitch-black hair touching his face. “Where is Rhan? Whom do you have to tell?”

For an instant, just for an instant, he seemed to focus upon her face. He was still, staring into her eyes as though she compelled him to motionlessness. For that instant, his mouth worked, he tried to say, “Nivr-otar. Deathless sleep, passionless, empty – the world’s fear – comes. Rhan – you must... The Bard... I must... see –”