Ecko Rising (38 page)

Ecko kicked out his heatseeker to check weapons.

In one fluid move, all three creatures nocked, drew and loosed.

In elegant slo-mo, three featherless shafts ripped through the wet air, flexing with the force of the shot.

At the axeman.

Their strength was deadly, their aim impeccable. Ecko spared a second to wonder what the hell the draw was on those fucking things...

No idiot, the axeman was moving, perfectly practiced, rolling sideways below the level of the grass tops.

Adrenaline hot, Ecko started to grin.

As the stallion screamed fury and denial, there was a shadow, red eyed, darting more swiftly than the shafts themselves. His targeters blipped – once, twice, three times – plotted the arc. One arm swept, wet cloak flowing behind it – and the missiles were knocked wide. Lost in the grass.

And he was was gone again – a phantom in the darkness.

The axeman got as far as “What – ?” before Ecko’s harsh rasp shouted over the downpour, “So, ‘creature-created’. What else you got?”

The second volley came straight for him.

He cackled... and he was simply no longer there. After a world of nerve-contacted firearms, a bow and arrow just didn’t have a fucking prayer.

“Nice try, Sagittarius – you might wanna invest in some
sights
.”

The beast bellowed rebellion.

Down in the mass of the grass, the axeman shot out, “What the rhez
are
you?”

“Toldja – reinforcements.” Ecko’s eyes flashed red. “Deal with the big fucker, I’m going after his harem.” With a grin, he ducked sideways out of the axeman’s vision.

And cursed himself, for the fucking hundredth time, for dropping Salva’s rifle.

* * *

Triqueta’s mare was terrified. She wasn’t bolting – not yet – but she was whinnying through her teeth, her ears were back and she was shaking her wet mane against her neck.

Behind her, Redlock was advancing, combat-crouch, both axes spinning – one forwards, one back. He was soaked, hair and garments plastered to him, two thirds the height of the monster, but grim faced, utterly fearless. His confidence was palpable. Triq’d lay odds on his victory – an axe in the belly was going to slow that beast right down.

But it would get another shot before he closed.

Red lightning flashed.

In that instant, one of the mares squealed, rocked sideways and shot down suddenly at something beside it.

The other raised its recurve and loosed the shaft at Triqueta.

It hit her horse in the shoulder, skidded off bone and buried itself in the saddle-side.

The mare screamed, instinctually turned to bite.

The beast was nocking another, hands almost as fast as Triq’s could be.

Shit!

Thunder threatened, it rolled low round her ears. Wind and rain tore at her clothing, her skin. One chance.

As the mare gathered her legs to flee, Triq knotted one hand in her mane, swung her head sharply round. The horse hesitated – that was all her rider needed. She sat back in the saddle, down and hard.

The creature stopped, fidgeting madly.

With burning fury, Triq turned her towards the abomination. The rain hit them both, full in face. Triq blinked and spat water, it ran from her skin like blood.

That damn thing wasn’t getting off another shot.

* * *

Lost in the dark grass, grinning like a fiend, Ecko eyed the massive flank – ribs and muscles and hide – of the beast in front of him. He was still boosted, quivering with sustained adrenaline – soaked to the skin and waiting... poised...

Even with his speed, he was gonna have to be fast.

Then there it was – the jab of lightning, the IR-sight flash that exploded everything into split-second red light.

He put all his strength into it, every trick Mom had built for him, every fragment of his focus and adrenaline – and he lashed one perfectly placed kick at the side of the thing’s knee.

As it turned, it saw a dark shape, red eyes...

...then the light flash was gone.

The leg splintered and the creature buckled, squealing in pain and fury. But it shifted its weight to the other legs and shot back at the shadows in the grass.

It missed him. As the thunder rumbled, Ecko had vanished.

One down
, he thought to himself
. Three more to go.

* * *

Redlock faced the stallion.

In the back of his mind – Feren, child and laughing, running through the citrus orchards of his Idrakian home. His daughter, red hair in the sun; his wife, the embroidery on the front of her gown.

The memory twisted.
Get out, Far! Take your ideals and your ambitions and see if they’ll build you a home! See if you can eat them, sleep with them, love them –

Her bitter, eviscerating voice echoed down through returns.

And with it came
anger.

The flood of fury, the heat in his blood, the elation, the tight, narrow-focus precision. Around him, everything else had gone – the grass, the rain, the light, the storm, the sky. His world was honed, sharp as an axe-edge, his attention pure and absolute.

It freed him – he
lived
for moments like these.

The beast loosed its shot. It was close – too close – he twitched his hips and belly sideways.

It was past him and gone.

It wasn’t going to nock another. He was racing forwards, low down through the grass, both weapons spinning into place with his full force behind them. A hard double feint, high at its chest – it turned the huge bow to block – but the axeman dropped sharply and the cuts came under, vicious and exact. He hit both lower forelegs, slashing flesh, splintering bone.

The stallion snarled, staggered.

His expression set, Redlock smashed it again, one side then other – then he dove sideways, out of its range.

This time, it shrieked, lurched forwards. One claw slashed at him, the heel of the bow slammed hard into his shoulder. It caught his roll and drove him sideways, almost to his knees.

The pain was sharp, the nock tore through fabric and skin – his blood surged, roaring in his ears. As he came back up, he threw his bodyweight into the beast, slammed the struck shoulder up under its raised leg. The opposite axe uppercut, hacked into ribs with a vicious impact. He heard them crack, splinters of broken bone visible through hide and flesh.

Hissing fury through gritted teeth, he tried to force the beast to fall.

He failed.

The creature’s weight was too much for him; it was grinding him down into the grass. He wasn’t strong enough to hold this colossal, soaking, stinking, struggling creature. He slammed his axe into its ribs again, and again; they shattered like dry firewood. He could hear the rumblings of its belly, the grunts of pain with each broken bone.

Then, suddenly, the creature’s weight was gone. He staggered, nearly fell, his shoulder pounding. It stood on its hind legs, claws flashing about his face, blocking the wind, the rain, the light, like a wall. Its ribs were grinding, blood streamed down its belly and legs.

Right, you bastard.

The thing has made its mistake.

* * *

Triq leapt her little mare straight at the monster.

The creature was big – the femininity of breasts and face somehow more disturbing than the stallion’s insanity. Shrieking fury into the dark sky, she barged the mare broadside into the beast’s lower chest, haunches shoving at it like a cavalry mount. Snarling, it dropped the bow and made a grab for Triq’s wet hair. She dipped sideways, one blade opening a triangular tear across its ribs.

Foreclaws useless, the creature closed to shove back. It kneed the mare repeatedly in the belly, making her snort and bare her teeth to bite. It was close, too close, over her. She could smell the horse-stink of skin and hide and anger, the sweat, the fury. She could see where it had sunburn, the worn, wet leather of the halter top it wore, the white scar that crossed one shoulder. Its coarse, rain-soaked mane was hitting her in the face.

Spitting, shaking herself free of itch and water, Triq shoved back, but her little mare was too small. Savagely snarling, wordless and furious, the creature was gaining ground. Its hands grappled for her wrists.

It said
, “Sister.”

The word sent a chill through Triq’s flesh – as though some daemon figment had called her by name. It was a hiss, an accusation.

“Don’t bet on it, sunshine.” Barging, barging repeatedly, Triq fought to push it back. Its claws pulled chunks out of the soil, raking at the mare’s delicate legs. Triq’s shortsword tore open another ragged gash, and another. Blood seeped into the rain on its skin. “You know what this weapon is?” Slash, jab. “Do you know?” Barge, slash. “It’s the one that killed your
foal
.”

The beast’s expression twisted, it bared predator’s teeth. Its dark eyes – so human, so animal – met hers. Just for a second, there was sanity, realisation.

Motherhood.

Then one huge fist smashed her in the face.

Triq wasn’t fast enough. She snatched her head sideways, but the blow caught her ear, slamming pain through her skull and making her reel in her saddle. Thunder rolled – she wasn’t sure if it was inside her clanging head.

The beast was brutal – not fast, but powerful. It reached a hand for Triq’s neck and brought the fist back to slam again.

She was dizzied, sparks exploding in her vision. Pain blinded her; rain battered her shoulders. She held on to both blades – just – kept the mare under her with a grip that was pure reflex.

The creature was laughing. In and out of focus, it swam in the grey air.

The hand caught her by the throat. Squeezed, crushed. She coughed, gasped, struggled to breathe. With half-panicked determination, she hacked one serrated blade viciously at the creature’s inner wrist. Fighting to inhale, she dragged it through flesh, into bone.

It ripped, rasped, tore chunks from skin and muscle.

Then it shattered, terhnwood splinters stinging at the creature’s arm – and at her own.

The beast spat ferocity, threw Triq back against her saddle; clamped the injured arm in its hand. Blood pumped through its fingers. It gave ground. Her head hammering with pain, rain streaming from her skin, Triq threw herself forwards and rammed the remaining blade, point first, into the pool of stark shadow under its arm.

This time, she made it scream.

* * *

For a moment, Redlock stood silent, the huge beast reared over him.

Then he moved, hard, fast, focused. He lunged forwards, slammed both axes into its soft belly.

And slashed them downwards.

The impact jarred his elbows, he felt them hack – cutting deep, flesh parting before steel. The beast juddered, screamed. As he heaved the blades free, he was up to his elbows in gore.

Intestines spilled from twin wounds, hitting his shoulders, sliding down his chest, staining him with the creature’s death.

As it crashed back to the ground, he dove sideways and heard one foreleg crack.

It buckled, but still didn’t fall. Its claws were catching its own sliding guts, they dragged, filth covered, through the muddy grass.

Yet it laughed, manically, vicious humour across the downpour.

“You want to stop me, warrior? You think you can?”

With a grim twist to his mouth, Redlock hit a low crouch and slammed one axe into its rear leg, just above the dewclaw. The second axe followed it, this one into the slender bones below its knee.

Its leg shattered. It faltered, staggered.

It plunged away from him, reeling, trying to turn. It was slipping on grass soaked in blood, tangling itself in its own viscera.

What the rhez did it take to kill this thing?

A second, vicious double blow, ribs breaking under the impact.

Another.

It was faltering, now, trying to get away from his relentless onslaught. Its hide was matted with rain and blood and fluid, its intestines were spilling from it like uncoiling rope. Its eyes were wild, terrible; its breath ragged. It half turned, raised the bow as if to strike...

And it started to shake.

The muscles in its legs were quivering. It staggered, just for a second, righted itself.

But Redlock was still moving.

Holding hard to his lunch, he ducked sideways through the wall of grass and came up before it with both axes gripped centre-shaft – ready.

He heard the scream that came from the creature Triqueta was fighting...

...but the stallion was still going.

A final, desperate effort.

It rode him down.

* * *

Ecko’s boosting was running out.

He was coming down, shivering with aftershock. His belly was twisting round that familiar, hollow sense of loss.

The beast was searching for him. It was lurching painfully, claws raking, hands reaching into the grass. Its face – how did it manage to look so fucking girlie? – was twisted round hurt and savagery and suspicion.

And without his supercharged strength and speed, he’d got nothing that’d touch it – no weapon, no flamer, fucking sod all. What was he supposed to do – bite it to death?

He wondered what’d happened to Tarvi – she still had her spear, her bow. Unable to come up with anything any more creative, he loosed his Bogeyman breathing: wet, dank, rotting. And he kinda hoped the beast had read the comic books.

It turned, its shattered knee twisting, but it was sharp as a hunter, seeking the sound through the rain.

“I can hear you,” it said. “Kartian creature – like us, created. Better than born!”

“Make that ‘upgraded’.” His voice came from behind it. As it spun, he was off through the grass, heading low and swift for the lifeless black wall of the bank.

Weapons. He needed weapons. He’d sell his fucking soul right now for a carbon-fibre blade and a couple of spools of monowire...

“You think?” The creature whirled, straining to see. “Better than we?”

“You betcha ass –” The taunt ended in a clumsy exclamation as his stealth-cloak caught in the grass, a sudden line of tension across his throat.