Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

The Elementalist’s attention had been thrown high and wide – as though he, too, raged with the Sical’s fire – but he was still quick enough to dodge the axe blades. The chain lashed in twin figure-eights, to his left and then right. He crossed the ends over as though they were as light as rope.

Redlock’s brown eyes narrowed at this display of skill – they were close to the fire, and the huge brazier sprang sweat from his skin.

The Sical’s life glistened from the chain, made the axeman’s red hair blaze. As Redlock moved in for the second attack, first one end of the chain and then the other caught him across the ribs. He staggered in pain. Maugrim paced him, round the brazier’s edge, still backing away from the range of the short-handled axes.

But in Redlock’s ears raged the adrenaline of his battle lust. The pain caused a surge of fury that made him grin, tight and eager. This was the feeling he knew with every nerve ending. He welcomed it to him and his anger uncurled, precise and targeted.

He knew how to fight two-handed, knew the tricks and how to avoid them. The impressive double whirl should gain the offensive, it was a tactic he understood. With fast feet, he went forwards. Both ends of the chain whipped past him, catching his hair as they crossed over. He spun the axes easily, hitting Maugrim in the belly and slashing deep. The Elementalist coughed blood, but did not pause. Bracing his weight, he surged forwards, and in one swift movement, wrapped the length of chain between his hands about Redlock’s neck.

And fought to tighten it.

The chain-ends lost their coordination and clashed to a stop.

Redlock couldn’t breathe. His lungs strained for air, he could feel the pressure in his face. The heat became anger. He’d not crossed weapons with this madman to die at his blood-blackened hands.

For Feren. For his damned wife , his daughter.

Grunting, he threw his weight forwards into the loop. Maugrim, surprised, crashed to the floor, Redlock’s knee in his cut stomach. One axe whipped over the chain and upwards.

The Elementalist coughed blood; it streamed from his nose and mouth and matted his beard.

The axe blade was almost in his face. He let go of the chain with one hand, catching the shaft, trying to push the warrior’s weight off him. Redlock tried to pull backwards, but Maugrim broke his nose with the other, chain-wrapped, fist. The axeman fell backwards, losing his grip on his axes and skidding to the floor. His head bounced off the stalagmite pillar and he shook himself, half stunned.

The Sical blazed above him.

Maugrim got his feet under him, kicked the axes behind him and grinned.

Weaponless, sharp needles of pain jabbing into his face, Redlock grabbed one end of the chain, and pulled.

But Maugrim held it firm. He swung the free end a couple of times to build momentum, then smashed Redlock across the shoulder as he pulled himself to his feet. Whipping it back, he struck again across the other shoulder, the chain slashing through the fire and spilling sparks. For a moment they played tug of war, but upright now – Redlock let go.

Maugrim staggered. Redlock skidded past him, scrabbled for a second, then spun back with axes in hands.

They stalked each other again. Redlock’s nose splashed across his face. Maugrim’s belly cut seeping, but not deep enough. The Elementalist’s eyes reflected the fire of the Sical, but Redlock fought for Feren’s death and with certainty born from long returns of winning. He would not back down.

* * *

Before Ecko, the statues were grinding into motion.

Rank upon rank of them, eyes of fire and stained grey stone graunching into life as if the Sical were their master. But Ecko was fighting now, his speed inhuman, his targeters flashing, crossing, homing – faster than a thought and flickering like a twist of darkness. His fear and doubt had been burned away in the decisiveness of motion.

He was a fucking hero.

One foot, a powered kick that sent the first shambling attacker staggering backwards, its chest cracked like the rotting stonework of the walls. His own shout echoed back to him. He crouched, his fists before his chest and face, switched feet and kicked again, his targeters leading him, plotting trajectory and weak point. His blood sang with oxygen. A second impact, a second stone critter halted in its tracks – and it simply crumbled, a rumble of rubble crashing to the floor.

With a spin, he took out a third, a lashing piston kick that dropped it, crashing backwards and shattering into pieces.

They came on, closing around him, almost closer than he could take out – but he was on fire. One foot struck under the chin of a fourth and took its stone head clean off its shoulders.

Their eyes glowed sullen, they were walling him in, reaching for him with pitted grey hands – they ground as they moved, stone zombies from a forgotten graveyard. A savage spin-kick took out a fifth, axed back for a sixth. The rubble was building round him.

You see me now, Eliza? Huh?

He had so been waiting for this.

* * *

At the cathedral’s heart, still trapped by the brazier, the Sical raged livid – imprisoned and furious. It spoke now, crying out in its own liquid-and-crystal tongue, but it could not get free.

Beside it, Redlock and Maugrim fought back and forth, savage and desperate.

Amethea had denied the elemental the last of its fuel. She was weak, battered, burned and bloodless – but she was on her feet, and the stone resolution in her heart was at last set. No more fear.

Beside her, the Banned woman was arrow nocked, guarding her charge, but watching Redlock for an opening, watching the shadow thing – whatever it was – spinning like a daemon in the midst of the incoming shamblers.

Stone splintered and shattered as it struck. It had a grace and fighting style she’d never seen – its feet slammed like weapons and the shamblers exploded into dust.

She had dreamed about it – black eyed and fierce.

“Thank you,” she said, belatedly. Stupid, unnecessary, inadequate. “Feren, did he – ?”

“He died – but he found us first. He was braver than I’ve ever seen. I’m Triqueta.” She gave a weary grin. “I’m no apothecary, but I did nab this off the girl that was.”

Died. Amethea was numb: there was an odd hollow where her grief should have been.

She stared at the pouch, scattering contents across the blood-spiral stone.

And in it, at last, after everything: the taer. The pollen they’d left Xenok to find.

Something in her heart found it funny, bitter, outrageous. She was laughing, hurting, crying – Feren was dead, but Redlock was here. The nightmare was over.

Relief choked her. It was so long unlooked for – and it fought like a daemon almost within her reach.

Triqueta thumped her shoulder gently, awkwardly affectionate. Amethea smiled, striving for control – but then her eyes were drawn to the dark length of the stalactite, slithering still towards the fire, striving to complete the conduit.

She had started this. Her inability to resist Maugrim’s charm had ended in this madness, in this rising promise of destruction.

“We have to stop this,” she said. Redlock and Maugrim were fighting, fighting. The Sical’s blaze was roasting hot. “ I have to stop it.”

I started it.

Triqueta rubbed the stone in her cheek against her shoulder – easing an itch.

“Then you’re going to need a really big bucket of water.”

* * *

Maugrim danced his chain, battering Redlock backwards as the warrior tried to regain the control of the fight.

Keeping track of the chain-ends was pure instinct: he didn’t see them, just reacted. Redlock was dodging, dancing and lunging, the call of his blood pounding in his ears, his focus as sharp as a knife. He was backing, aware of the hollows of the sarcophagi behind him, but making Maugrim move in the hope of tearing his wound. A dark stain spread down the Elementalist’s odd garments.