Ecko Rising (19 page)

And gradually, as though it heard her plea, the calcification withdrew.

Elation fired her. It was slow, so slow, and it left a cold, numb emptiness in her flesh; an emptiness filled by screaming needles of returning sensation, by dripping, caustic blood. It hurt like the rhez, but the pain was cleansing, cleared her head, chased the last tails of lust from her body. She became impatient, hammered at her skin to make the transition faster – she
had
to be out of this before he came back!

Oddly, she found herself cold. As her legs were freed, she could stretch to reach her old garments – the shirt and overshirt she’d worn from Roviarath. They didn’t warm her, but their familiarity was comforting. Pressed to her face, they smelled of chearl and grass and woodsmoke. With them on, she knew who she was.

How many people had she refused to heal? Stood by and watched die in agony?

Without Maugrim’s heat haze, there was no way to soften, rationalise – or to forgive.
Metal embedded in skin, each a vast, raw, open wound, unable even to plead for their own death.
For one horrified moment, she wondered if she deserved everything that Maugrim had done to her.

Then she was angry. Angry for herself, for Feren, for the people who had died in pain unspeakable, for the ones yet to come. With her hands under her knees, she tugged at her feet until she felt they’d tear at the fusion point.

One way or another, she was going to pay him back for every wound he’d inflicted, every liberty he’d taken. For every
touch
!

The faster her blood flowed, it seemed, the faster the stone receded – after a few more moments, she found she could stand up, legs shaky but capable.

The needle sting reached her heels. It itched.

She leaned forwards, hands against the rock, tried to lift one foot, then the other.
Come on, come on!

They still wouldn’t budge.

Her finger brushed a mark, carved in the stone.

A smile etched on the metal plate that covered his mouth
.

No.
She told herself.
Stop it.

She’d noticed the marking before, but the shimmer of Maugrim’s flame had blurred her vision and she’d not seen anything clearly. Now, as the itch strayed over the soles of her feet and agonisingly into her toes, she crouched and leaned to reach the rocklight.

Held it up to the wall.

Light glittering from a carapace of scales.

The mark was old, shallow and faded – a spiral curve, elegant and ancient. It spoke wordless of the vast age and might that dwelled within these stones, these passageways. She traced the spiral with a fingertip, wondering what it meant – who had put it there.

What had she said to Feren?
Maybe it once was some celebration, some ancient elemental temple; maybe the stones just observed the Count of Time. Maybe it was a memorial, or a tomb. I heard once that the hill we’re standing on is a passage grave, commemorating some lord or hero...

The realisation was so obvious: she was
under
the Monument. She was stood within forgotten stones, on the outermost edge of a site so ancient it was lost to lore, abandoned for thousands of returns.

Oh Goddess.

Two sharp, bright points of fear – one for herself, caught down here with no idea as to what really lay outside this dim, dry chamber. The other for Maugrim, for the might he’d touched...

...and for what he’d do with it.

Skin peeling, strip by strip, layer by layer. Metal in muscle, shuddering, jerking nerves.

Not again!

Leaning her weight on her wrists, she found she could lift her heels. One side then the other, she could reach down to scratch and scratch and
scratch
them. She could almost feel flakes of stone coming away under her fingers. She could flex her toes, just. Mastering the urge to just rip the ball of her foot clean away from the floor, she threw the rocklight to the pallet and scrabbled for the rest of her kit. Belt, knife, pouches, neck-thongs – as soon as she could move, she was trousers and boots on and
out
of this chamber.

And then what?

She traced the spiral again. The fading of the stone through her flesh had left only memories of its touch in her soul. Its vast awareness had gone from her heart – but she was herself, at last, she was Amethea. The spiral was comforting, as though the stone had not forgotten her.

She was no warrior, no scout, she had been raised by the church, parentless – but never purposeless. As her feet came at last away from the rock and she stamped on them, hard, fighting the pain of returning feeling, she remembered her determination.

He had looked down at her, and he had laughed.

Triumph and realisation.

Whatever he wanted to do with his flesh-and-metal minions, she had no doubt that flesh and stone would be his next step – that, somehow, he would seek to tap consciously into the awareness they’d awakened.

Into the sheer Gods-power of whatever lay beneath.

She threw her legs into her trousers, her feet into her boots, laced them both shut. There was a twinge of loss as her feet finally lost their skin contact.

Settling her belt at her hips, she faced the chamber door.

She’d only ever travelled one way – but had seen enough to realise the size of the maze that lay down here, forgotten by all but Maugrim himself. There was no way out through the treasure chamber – and besides, she found she wanted to stay with the stone.

Alone, her feet stinging raw with the return of circulation to bloodless muscles, she drew a long breath and rolled back the door.

He was smiling at her, a smile of victory.

“Going somewhere, sweetheart?”

* * *

The Kartian metalworker called Vice knew his usefulness was over – and the price he would pay.

He was an artisan, born to craft, raised in almost darkness and tuned to heights of hearing and tactile sensitivity no Grasslander could emulate. In Maugrim’s voice, he’d heard clearly the nuances of hope, exhilaration, domination and death; in the warm, shifting air of the passageways, his scarred Kartian skin responded to the faintest breath of draught, to the raised awareness of what lay deeper.

Maugrim had cauterised the stone, he’d burned away the light-lichens, the stray grass roots, the loose soil and the errant, blindly curious creatures. The rock was warmed by his elemental alignment, but he’d still not yet touched the site’s true nexus.

The stone had awoken, Vice had heard its pulse thrum in his skin, in the bones behind his ears. It lay quiescent now – but its potential left him breathless.

Further in. Somewhere.

Maugrim’s chamber of wealth and death didn’t interest him – it was a dead end in more ways than one. He took a little of the white-metal – not enough to be missed – and he slipped silently away.

This site had no fears for one raised under the dark might of the Kartiah Mountains.

Following the soft touch of air, his fingers tracing the stones in the walls, he began to understand that Maugrim had only cleansed a part of the passageways – that so much more lay untouched. Slowly, the stones about him grew cooler and the roots of the grass began to penetrate the rock, touching his face with creeping pale fingers. Fallen soil caught his feet; the air smelled chill and dry. In places, the walls were graven with sigils his fingers traced with curious incomprehension.

It grew moist and cold, the cold of soil and stone.

He closed towards the centre – the heart of the site that lay directly beneath the broken sarsens of the Monument itself.

Here, the passageways were crumbling, tumbles of rocks littered the floor, dirt fell with a hiss as he passed, dusting his intricate white hair. There was emptiness here, loss and ancient abandonment – now awakened and seeking understanding. No mortal foot had passed this way in perhaps thousands of returns.

The rockfalls grew deeper and older until they barred his way utterly – he couldn’t reach the centre.

Whatever they defended, he needed to find.

He was Kartian, he could navigate with a breath and a touch. In the darkness of the passageways he tried again to reach the site’s heart – and again – but each time, rockfalls or tumbled ceilings barred his way. Growths of dried lichen teased his fingertips and the roots of the grass hung almost to the floor, curtains of pale entrapment.

Then the air behind him moved.

And the rock came savagely to life.

10: FEREN

                    
THE WANDERER, ROVIARATH

The crash of wood made Roderick jump.

The tavern’s doors had been kicked open, slammed back against the benches. Between them stood a silhouette, small and strong, haloed by the moons’ glitter. The rocklight glinted on four pale eyes.

In its arms dangled a corpse.

“Gods!” Heart in his throat, he was moving before he realised it, skid-vaulting the bar and hitting the floor running. The last gaggle of drinkers fumbled for peace-bonded weapons.

The thing in doorway staggered, cried, “Ress!” and the four-eyed shape stumbled forwards into the light.

Triqueta.

She was wide-eyed and shaking, sweat and desperation slid clean trails through the dust on her skin. The stones in her cheekbones gleamed – and in her arms hung the body of a boy.

“Help him!”

The few remaining members of the Banned were moving, shouting.

“Triq!” Stool going over, one of the vets was shoving his way to the fore, around him, his mates were drunkenly swearing. Voices clamoured. “What the rhez?” “Who’s
that
?” “Watch it, you sonofamare, that was my beer!”

Triqueta was folding under the weight.

“Ress! He’s out cold – pretty badly chewed up.”

The tide of questions rose again.

“Over here!” Roderick made a grab for the nearest rocklight, shadows leaped like figments through the room as he lifted it over a table. “Put him there, in the light. I’ll get you water.”

With a grunt, Triqueta hefted the boy onto the tabletop.

And stood back.

It was deep night, and the tavern’s staff had long since retired. In The Wanderer’s taproom, the Banned’s final die-hards had gathered close to raise old songs and leather tankards, but the soldiers had finally reeled away and the rest of the room was empty. Cursing rolled from a nearby figure, snoring on a bench.

The veteran Ress, tall and lean, his short beard shot with grey, studied the boy’s dirt-streaked face.

Triq’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “He was conscious when I found him, just. His ankle’s busted – he’s a mess. Think you can fix him?”

“Think I can try.”

The remaining Banned had lowered voices and vessels.

As Roderick returned with water, Ress was cutting deftly through the boy’s shirt and breeches and leaning in close, examining cloth bindings in the tavern’s pooled rocklight.

Triqueta fidgeted, swiped a tankard from one of her cohorts and took a long swig.

Ress glanced at her, puzzled. “You treated him?”

“Fat chance!” She wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

“Oi, Triq!” A voice from the table. “Bit young for you?”

“Not funny.” She threatened them with the tankard, turned back to Ress. “Found him out towards the Monument. He’d made a crutch out of a javelin, Gods know how he got this far.”

“The Monument?” The Bard glanced at the doorway, an odd, formless shock prickling along his nerves. “That’s crazed.”

Triq had another mouthful of ale.

The rocklight showed the boy’s slim, pale chest was crusted in blood. His shirt, breeches and bindings were stuck to him. With calm, steady hands, Ress was soaking the fabric away from his skin.

“Tough kid,” he murmured.

“He spooked my mare,” Triqueta said. “Had a rhez of time getting him back here.”

The Banned round the table were muttering superstition and ribald defiance. A hand grabbed Triq’s wrist and, amidst laughter, the ale tankard went back to its owner.

“One thing at a time.” Under Ress’s gentle fingers, the blood-clotted fabric peeled away from the boy’s wound like a scab. The apothecary wheeshed through his teeth. “Whoever treated him knew what they were doing. Only reason he’s got this far. He’s been
spitted.
Ready for roasting. Straight through, front to back.”

No healer, the Bard could only stay out of the light and watch. The mention of the Monument had thrown him, and he found that he was trying to remember something, a figment that had long since faded into darkness and the Count of Time.

But Ress was studying the boy, neatly slicing off breeches and boots.

“The ankle – wouldn’t’ve been serious. If he’s walked on it –” he paused as if trying to encompass this information “– it’s splinters. Only made it because he kept his boots on. It’ll heal, but he’ll be crippled.” He rubbed one hand though his beard. “His hip – chips off the bone. It’s gone through at an angle – sitting on the horse has scrambled it badly. If it’s punctured his kidney... Gods, I don’t even know what could have
made
a hole like this.” He shrugged exasperation. “Anyone? Suggestions?
Serious
ones?”

Triq said, “Where do I know him from?”

“So many, you’ve forgotten?” One of her Banned cohorts made a foul gesture and she punched his ear without missing a breath. There were guffaws, like the releasing of tension. Understanding their need for humour, Roderick covered a brief grin.

But he moved the rocklight to study the boy.

The kid’s face was sunburned, freckled, streaked with tears, there was an old scar in his eyebrow. He had crazed, orange hair and several days’ growth of fluff on his chin. And yes, he was faintly familiar.

It teased him as though a breeze had chilled his skin. Silently, the Bard cursed the irony of his moniker – like the very world herself, his memory was flawed.

Then his eyes were pulled to the terrible hole in the boy’s hip.

And he found his hand over his mouth, his stomach knotting.