Ecko Rising (23 page)

He raked the soil, shredding the grass. He shook his wild hair, twisted his broken face at her and made only noise.

She remained quiet, motionless. Her challenge grim and silent but for the whetted sense of rising eagerness in her chest and throat. She held the spear two-handed, close to the head to give her hard impact at short range.

Looking down at the ludicrous, puny human, he snorted through flared nostrils and snatched at her face with one extended claw.

It was almost too easy.

She ducked sideways, forwards, came up right between his two muscled forelegs. She slammed the spear straight into the socket joint.

And pushed. With every fibre of strength and determination she had.

He couldn’t articulate a scream, he hissed and bubbled. Half shoved, he stood on his hind legs.

Letting the spear go up with him, she changed her grip and pitched her strength against his. Driving the spear point deeper and using it like a lever against his bulk, she intended to topple him sideways.

The point scraped bone, dug deep into the joint. He flailed with his good leg, claw flashing, clenching aimlessly. His back claws danced, trying to keep him upright.

Both hands white, spitting curses through clenched teeth, she slowly, slowly heaved him into overbalance. She felt him sway, and then totter. The spear head tore deeper into flesh and muscle and ligament.

He staggered and she screamed defiance at him.
“Go down you bastard thing, go down!”

He lurched, staggered, tried to right himself – but he was too badly damaged.

He crashed to the ground like a rock, legs in spasm, eyes wild.

Cursing aloud, with no idea what she was saying, Jayr dragged the spear point free with a foot on his chest, then rammed it straight through the red hole where his mouth had been.

Her adrenaline crested in a scream.

And with a splutter, the beast died.

* * *

Smooth and grim, Ress fitted and threw a second spear.

The existence of the creatures had shocked his analytical mind, sent tremors through his confidence. As Triqueta and Jayr took the fight to close quarters, he was robbed of safe targets and he watched the monsters in disbelief, almost as if he expected them to dissolve in the summer’s haze.

He fitted a third spear, awaiting an opportunity. Behind him, Feren groaned, stained with suffering.

What were they? Where had they come from?

These creatures were young. Had they been horses, they would have been the return- or two-returns-old, young males driven from the main herd by the stallion, yet still orbiting close to their dams. Add intellect, and that would make them...

Scouts.

It fitted, but it didn’t answer the question.
How were they possible?

Where the rhez had they come from?

His attention was caught by Jayr’s gelding, cantering back towards him with an odd, shaky gait. Ress untangled himself from the spear thrower, jumped from the wagon and went to catch his mane, saw the savage gashes in his rear. As he grabbed for his precious supply of taer, he tried to strategise a solution.

And failed. He had
no
cursed idea...

The boy had to go to Roviarath. The audience with Larred Jade, demanded by the Bard, was now – by every God and his disbelief! – essential. The CityWarden must send force to answer this.

But that still didn’t answer his basic incomprehension. Half a man and half a horse... it was loco.

How could such things even exist?

The Bard had raged about alchemy – about skills forgotten, lost in times disregarded. What kind of learning was necessary to graft a man onto a horse’s body? To keep it there? More than that – if these beasts were the two-return-olds, were they reproducing? Or being reproduced?

Was that what had happened to Feren’s unfortunate teacher?

Alchemy or no, he knew how flesh worked. And this was madness.

In spite of the sun, he was chilled.

The taer covered the gelding’s hide, soothing the terrible gashes in his rump and easing pain and bleeding. He blew through his lips and stood head down, buried to the ears in grass. Muscles in his shoulders twitched.

Agitated, Ress stroked the horse’s sweated neck. Speculation was pointless – the monsters were real, they were
real.
He needed facts, and context, and he needed to extrapolate what the rhez this meant.

Was Roderick
right
? All this time, had he really known some vast and sinister truth? It was crazed. And yet...

...no more crazed than what he’d just seen.

The horse whuffled in pain, nosing the grass.

Across the plainland, the girls were returning. Triqueta was back astride her little mare, Jayr walked by her head and he could see them laughing, gesturing as they retold their separate fights. Watching them, the ageing apothecary smiled, a hint of paternal affection they would never see – somehow, their loco victory didn’t surprise him.

But the questions were still coming.

His eyes tracked the descent of the aperios, the carrion birds, finally feasting on the creatures they’d followed for so long. Like a row of archers’ targets, Ress set up what he knew, re-evaluated everything Feren had told him. The monster – the stallion – was real. It was a fanatic – crazed. Its agenda could be anything. He had to know where it had come from, how it was possible, what else may be coming in its wake...

The implications were terrifying. Ress’s whole comprehension of reality had taken a sharp smack round the side of the head. What had Roderick said?
Just because you can’t see it –

Behind him, the boy said suddenly, “Thea!”

Startled, Ress turned – into a chill rush of shock when he saw Feren was sitting up. White faced in the sunlight, cold fever shining on his skin and his red hair a dark mat of sweat, he stared fixedly at the setting sun, the rising shadow of the Kartiah. His dry lips moved again, though the word was almost wistful, “Thea...”

“It’s all right.” Ress was back in the cart, rummaging hastily through packs and bags for something to ease his tension. “Rest easy, Feren, we’ll find her.”

He heard Triqueta laughing.

But the boy stared straight ahead, the dying sun reflecting red in his eyes. He was shivering, slim body wracked with desperation, his wasted hands clutched at his covers. “Don’t leave me... with the monsters...”

Monsters.

The shadow of the Kartiah swelled as the sun touched the tops of the mountains. Like blood, red sunset light was flooding across the plain.

The girls came close, softening their elation to silence as they saw the cart.

“What happened to him?” Jayr threw the question at Ress as she went to check on her horse.

“I don’t know.” Ress smoothed oil across the boy’s upper lip. Feren inhaled, inhaled more deeply. His eyes began to blink – at first confused, and then more heavily.

“Can’t you see it...?” the boy said. Slumping now, Feren turned to look at the apothecary, struggled to focus. “The mountains... the shadow... I told her...”

Triqueta said, “Poor kid.”

“Brave kid,” Ress said grimly. He smoothed Feren’s sweating hair, gentle. “Rest now. You’re on the edge of hope. We reach Roviarath before the dawn.”

“We’d better,” Triq said. “Whatever they are, soon they’ll know that we know...”

The apothecary paused to look down at the boy, across at both women, then out towards the east, the Monument and the far distant sea. The Bard’s madness was touching him, twisting around the questions in his head, an odd, creeping sensation:
Something isn’t right.

He said, “I don’t like this.”

Triqueta glanced at Ress. “You? Not got a rational explanation?”

He snorted. “First thing – make sure Feren’s safe and cared for. Then, if Larred Jade hasn’t got answers, I’m going downriver.” He shook his head. “Light-alchemy, impossible monsters. Maybe the library has something.”

“You’re going to Amos?” Triq stared.

“He’s hurt.” Jayr was stroking her gelding’s long nose with one gentle, callused hand – and almost pouting. “I want to find these things.”

“He needs time and rest,” Ress said. “And I’ll need a guard for the trip. Triq’ll take Jade’s patrols to find this thing.” He patted Jayr’s shoulder.

“The Great Library’s a ruin,” Triqueta said. “Only thing you’ll find in there is mulch.”

“Not if you know where to look.” He gave a brief grin. “Now, that esphen we were supposed to have for dinner – where’d it go? Don’t know about you two – but I’m starved.”

12: COURAGE

                    
THE WANDERER, AMOS

Deep in the tavern’s cellars, high in the packed-tight shelving, Ecko had been acquiring
stuff.

He’d clambered about like some strange four-limbed insect, scrabbling from stack to stack and shelf to shelf, exploring, learning, scavenging. One thing remained true wherever you were – you
always
needed a cache.

And this was a helluva place to get one.

Being down here was enclosed, familiar. It felt safe – even Kale the not-werewolf wouldn’t find him in all of this. And anyhow, if these cellars didn’t wind up in some underground tunnel system, then he was a monkey’s uncle.

In the layers of shadow, no one could see him grin.

Craft tools –
tick
; vials of toxins and herbs –
tick
. The substances were unfamiliar, but the learning might be fun. Explosives – a little harder to come by. At some point, basic pomegranate grenades were a must – and he was
so
gonna be inventing gunpowder as soon as he got all the bits...

Stick
that
up the God of Evil’s scaly ass and light the fuse.

He turned another corner, shelves and heaps and dust tails. There was a sliver of pale glitter over his head, moonlight on a tiny, cracked-mica pane. This was the most fun he’d had since he got here – with a little luck and a little chemistry, he’d have the Industrial Revolution in full fucking swing. Plus, there hadda be a giant-rat infestation down here
some
place...

The Bard’s cellars, though, were rodent-free. Wines were stored in racks of ceramic and pottery – a multitude of shapes, colours and labels that looked like a collection of souvenirs. Wooden ale barrels were more familiar; spirits were stored in squat, dark bottles that might’ve been stitched leather. There was no glass, no metal and a distinct lack of dangerous chemical compounds.

Now that
, Ecko figured,
just wasn’t fucking fair.

He kept looking.

Somewhere over his head, it was deep night. The Banned were still singing – he could hear them, raucous and off key, stamping out the time. The goldie girl had vanished maybe an hour or so before. He still had her dice – six-sided but the corners blunted and the symbols unfamiliar – now added to his growing stash of goodies.

Yeah, Eliza, Let’s see what the pattern does with
that
decision, huh?

Ecko had made a den high in one of the racks. As he’d explored outwards, he’d found that the walls were brick, the mortar smooth. Under his feet, the flagstone floor was cold. Once, a flitting shape had made him start, but it was only the catlike thing he’d seen once before, lithe and warm to his heatseeker. It blinked at him and was gone.

Not a single secret passage had given itself up to his dextrous touch.

He’d passed through Kale’s pantry, eying the bunches of greenery, the dried and pickled vegetables, the shelves of unfamiliar produce. Some of it he knew by name, but he wasn’t convinced he trusted anything that didn’t come in shrink-wrapped plastic. Food that looked like animal still kinda freaked him out – never mind the fact he had no fucking clue what the animals were. Little fat fuckers, bug eyed and skinless, hung upside-down by threading one ankle though a hole in the other...

From somewhere, a clattering made him start, a burst of laughter and boisterous comments. The noise made him curl back against the shelving, though it was a good distance away.

There was no one down here.

Yeah, this is my place now.

Ghost silent, he crept deeper.

As he moved onwards, he found it was harder to navigate. Tall shelves and sharp turns completely defeated his telescopics. Narrow corridors wound tight between overladen racks hung with soft streamers of dust. The floor left odd, uneven steps waiting to catch his cloak hem and make him stumble. This was Malice in Wonderland, some fucking loony trip, confused and chaotic and mazelike and thrilling... Maybe, if he went far enough, he’d uncover the prison, or the magical portal to the Major Bad Guy’s front room. Maybe he’d find some skeleton from the Bard’s closet – or a forgotten Questing Hero who’d died from boredom and bad beer.

Deeper.

Slowly, the light paled and grew thinner. The shadows climbed higher and wound round the stacks like smoke. The shelves were packed even tighter, here. It was a warren of nameless stuff, layers of wooden boxes that hadn’t been moved in years. There were piles of junk in corners, lying in wait like creatures of the dark. Now, skitterings hinted at inhabiting critters – apparently the cat had a union. There were no cobwebs, but the dust was as thick as spider-silk armour and unfamiliar beetley things crawled over it.

Almost nothing had a label.

Jeez, it’s like Christmas in here!

Chrissakes, did they even know what half this shit was? Karine must have a full database in her fucking head. Nothing had numbers – was this what she recorded with her endless tally marks?

A sudden, rhythmic stomping shook the shelves and made him grin blackly in the almost-dark...

...and then he wondered just how far away that sound had actually been.

Shit.

Aw c’mon already, I was kidding...

The Wanderer’s cellars were larger than the floor of the tavern, a helluva lot larger. Surely there
had
to be more than booze and shopkeeper basics down here. Where were the rings and the gems and all that crap? Where was the cache of weapons and armour? Where was the monster and the big ol’ chest with the poisonous lock?