Ecko Endgame (28 page)

Triq held on, one hand in the mare’s mane and her legs gripped tightly. Her other hand held a blade and as the centaur lashed out with his hands, trying again to catch her fetlocks, Triq opened a gash in his arm that welled instantly rich-red.

Slash! Like the wound in the world!

The beast recoiled; hot, rich blood slicked both of them.

Come on then. Come on then!

She was going to kill this thing.

Furious, the centaur raged forwards, one foreclaw slashing downwards. The mare danced back, light on her hooves.

But not light enough.

Triqueta felt the shock as the huge claw caught the horse, four long gashes, straight down the base of her throat. She felt the animal shake and her front legs give, felt her stumble and go down, struggling to right herself again.

No!

And the beast was there, right over them. Triqueta let go of the mare’s mane, had both blades in hand – but she didn’t quite have the reach. As the mare struggled to get back up, Triq was on her feet on the little horse’s shoulders, slashing at the monster as it closed.

The mare jerked herself back to all four feet, but it was too late. Blood was streaming down her chest and forelegs, she was sagging and her breathing was wheezing tight in her windpipe. Torn between fury and grief, shrieking defiance, Triq slashed one blade sideways across the stallion’s chest, and, as he winced, she slammed the other one to the hilt between his broken ribs.

Ha!

It wasn’t in his human heart, but it was damned well close enough.

As the mare faltered and fell again, her body beginning to weaken, Triqueta was on her feet on the dead ground, going after the stallion as he fell back.

She was going to cut him to bloody
pieces.

Behind her, she could hear people running – Taure, probably, come to see to the mare. She trusted him, knew—

Then something huge came out of the rising dark.

* * *

She knew what it was, of course she did. Something in her had been expecting this from the moment they’d stopped here – maybe from the moment they’d set out. The thing had been stalking her like a hunter, like the damned bweao itself.

The bweao it – he – had saved her from.

This time, her shock was less and his presence made her angry. She knew this odd, misshapen form that Amal had crafted, his chearl body and his axes that glittered in the hazing moonlight – but she didn’t want him, not here, not now. She wasn’t some damned damsel that needed rescuing, for the Gods’ sakes, she was Banned and she was going to kill this fireblasted thing herself.

Ignoring the incoming creature, she went after the injured beast on foot, her remaining blade strong in her hand. The stallion was staggering, coughing gore, his claws rending great gashes in the soil underfoot. As she watched, pitiless, the creature went over on to his side, kicking in protest.

The Redlock-centaur stopped, seeming to understand her anger.

Triqueta ignored it and knelt beside the injured monster. Meeting its eyes, she spat in its face. Then, with a gesture as hard as it was deliberate, she cut its throat with the remaining blade.

She felt the ripple go through the centaur force as she did so, and she held her breath.

This was the moment she’d gambled on, her life’s last bet. Herds followed the stallion, and if another defeated him, then they would follow the victor…

Would these? Was there enough horse instinct in the human mind? Or would they just…?

She felt the Redlock-centaur’s flank beside her, the warmth both familiar and discomforting. She wanted to turn to check on the mare, but her attention had to be on the herd in front of her. If she showed a moment’s vulnerability…

Across from her, as the darkness closed about them, the centaur force laid down their weapons.

Behind her, the cries of her name rose to a roar of fever, voices of Banned and city alike.

But her little palomino mare died on the empty soil of the Varchinde.

Tusien.

Once a speck on the wall in the cellars of The Wanderer, now rising out of the ground-level fog, huge and jagged against a paling winter sky. Its lone tower caught the first light of the rising sun, and blazed as if already aflame. Halfway between the now-abandoned Fhaveon and the ruined remnant of Scar Lake, Tusien’s black and broken walls still held massive strength – they seemed unassailable, defended by the long slope of the hillside, and by an outer curtain-wall that crumbled forth about halfway down. Once, the ground would have been all grass and wildflowers – now it was lifeless, shrouded in winter mist.

Nivrotar had designated the great ruin as their target, their last stand, and they’d crossed half the Northern Varchinde to reach it. And, if her scheme had gone to plan, the forces of Amos should already be there; set up and waiting for Rhan to draw Vahl into the battle he could not win.

In theory.

But the Bard could see no sign of the camped Amos force.

He turned in his saddle and looked backwards, out across the plain.

And so: the final battle begins.

Out there, dawn mist seethed over dead ground. There were dark shapes in the fog and the cold: Vahl’s army, straining to get at them, writhe and eddy and slaver.

A thrill of anticipation went though him.

It’s all so
close
now! Everything I’ve been waiting for!

Around him, the warriors were weary and shivering, shadow-eyed and haunted. The voices of the Kas had called to them, touched them. The tan and flag commanders were numbering their soldiers, counting to see if any had been lost in the night’s run. They barked orders, puffs of steam and instruction. Drums sounded, the sharp sounds muffled by the fog. Runners took tallies to Mostak’s flag.

High above them, the sun slid slowly down the line of Tusien’s tower. The air began to warm, and the mist to clear.

And out across the plain, Vahl’s army began to move.

Roderick could hear them – shouts that grew in threat and volume, cries like echoes of bloodlust, now rising with alarming swiftness. He turned to the commander, but Mostak already knew – he was turning in his own saddle, barking orders. The drums changed tempo, stern retorts that brooked no delay. The warriors got up with a groan that felt like the hillside coming apart.

They formed up, flags and pennons fluttering like a last flare of hope.

From below them, there came a roar. A promise of death. A surge of eagerness and horror.

Fearless, Roderick answered it.

Boom. Ba-ba-boom. Ba-ba-boom.

There was power in the vibration, in the very sound. He could feel the heavy bass drumbeat in his chest, his throat; he could match and echo and rebroadcast it. He could call it forth, make it shake the air, the ground, the bleak ruins of the standing walls – he could make it shiver in a thousand bloodstreams.

The sound was pure courage. The heads of the exhausted militia came up, their chins raised and their eyes burning.

The drumbeat took them up the hillside, up towards where Tusien waited.

Below him, the snarl of the incoming forces rose in response. It grew louder, defiant – it rolled the last of the mist back with its hunger and rage and fury. It came closer, fast now. Vahl had heard the drums and now he came in at a run, his creatures racing reckless. As the fog rolled back, they were bright figments in the early morning, flashes of shields, a seethe of multi-hued fury, a rush of anger against the backdrop of the rising sun. The army had no formation: it seemed governed only by intent.

It
slavered.

And he dared them:
Boom. Ba-ba-boom. Ba-ba-boom.

The hillside rose before them. Behind them, the roar grew louder, pure lust. The mist had burned away; the sound rippled the winter-cold sunlight and the bright morning air.

And then, all at once, it became too much. The soldiers were strained to breaking point; they’d been pushed beyond their limits in the last days, and the hunger behind them was overpowering – they broke their ranks, and they ran.

Mostak swore, wheeled his mount, shouted orders. His banner flapped hard in the wind. The drums echoed, sharper now, the tan commanders shouted, but the fear was an infection and spreading fast. They were too little, too late.

Roderick stood in his stirrups, opened his throat to the air of the plain. He could feel it in his lungs, like he was attuned to it, like he could wield the very sky like Rhan wielded light—

The commander’s gesture was sharp, cutting him dead. For whatever reason, Mostak was letting this one run.

Perhaps it was the only way they could reach the heights in time.

As they broke, the shriek became a ragged, mocking shout, and the pursuit came even faster. The very ground seemed to shake with it – as if Tusien herself would come down upon their heads. Vahl’s force was closing the distance with terrifying speed.

The Bard let his kettledrums fall to silence, let his shoulders rest. He touched his heels to the big mustang, and they, too, ran.

Like Ecko, he was all but immune to fear – one of the gifts Mom gave her children.

While they were screaming.

Down there in the dark.

But sometimes, flight was the only rational choice.

The mustang was powerful, running hard to the top of the hill. The wind was chill in the Bard’s ears, laughing at him. Around him, the drums had stopped. They’d become so routine, he’d almost stopped hearing them – now, their absence was deafening.

Behind him, the militia were running scattered, ragged and panicked, packs thumping on backs already sore, spears and shields in hand and breath short. Shouts carried one to another, cries of alarm and encouragement. Soldiers staggered, fell behind, were picked up. Shouts rose, cries. Roderick looked for Ecko in the morass, couldn’t see him. The skirmishers were still out at the flank, though their horses were flagging. One of the mounted warriors had pulled ahead, bearing their presence to Nivrotar.

If she was here.

Behind them, the gap was closing with terrifying speed. Vahl reached the bottom of the incline – his forces were snapping hard at their heels. As the sun fully crested the dying remnant of the distant Fhaveon, so it streaked the sky with colours of pink flame. It lit the incoming force with rage and brilliance. They were close enough for him to see individual riders, faces stretched in hate.

They howled at their prey with a hunger that made him shiver – a hunger without humanity.

Mostak’s force was reaching the hilltop now, staggering but determined to keep running. Here and there, as wariness overcame panic, the warriors stopped and rested, hands on knees, leaning over as though they were about to throw up.

Judging flawlessly, Mostak’s command was perfectly timed – the drums began again and, under the sound, the formation found its feet, and its courage.

The mustang slowed to a walk, blowing hard now, placing his great hooves carefully. Roderick picked up the beaters for the kettledrums. He began again, the drums’ thunder answering the howl from below.

Boom. Ba-ba-boom. Ba-ba-boom.

His arms and shoulders hurt, but they didn’t matter. The sound steadied all who heard it.

They could not afford to slacken.

Below them, the enemy’s cavalry, once part of their own, had outdistanced the rest of the assault. The Bard could see now – eight or nine flags in total, though in disarray. Over all of them flew the white-feather banner of Fhaveon. The feather had been defaced, coloured blood-red.

The drums thundered loud, complex rhythms that echoed from the ruin’s walls and reissued the commander’s deployment orders.

But surely, Amos is here…?

Below them, the incoming force reached the curtain-wall.

The old wall had been long-shattered, rubbled to the ground in many places, and Vahl’s army simply spread about its outside like an infection. It surged over and past it, swelling up the hillside like bright dye in water.

Laughing.

Where is Amos?

Mostak bellowed; his flag bearer swung a flash of colour through the morning. The drums picked up speed, each of them resounding until the noise was colossal, a rumble of desperation that echoed belligerent, back from the walls. Commanders were shouting, the militia were running to their directed places like cornered esphen – without Amos they had to turn and fight, they had no other choice. The Bard joined the movement, his heart thumping out the rhythm.

Boom. Ba-ba-boom. Ba-ba-boom!

In the cold morning, orders snapped, sharp and brittle, like sticks underfoot. As the running militia reached the edge of the flat ground, the rearmost tan, those closest to the pursuit, parted and ran for the flanks; the tan at the front stopped, did a sharp about-turn, and stepped forwards, shields slamming tight together into a wall facing the incoming riders. At their edges, the archers turned, arrows nocked and waiting. The mounted skirmishers peeled to the sides and paused, hooves thumping at the cracked flagstones.

The shieldwall was just at the outermost edge of the wide and overgrown courtyard, keeping what height advantage they could.

The Bard, too, turned to face the incoming force, his kettledrum still thundering, striving to give the fighters courage. He could feel the ground shake beneath the incoming hooves as if the walls themselves would come down; he could see muscle and armour gleaming as the attackers came on through the sun and the dirt. The gap was narrowing by the moment – as the spears thumped into place on the top of the shieldwall, so the command came from the archers’ flanks, “Loose!”

Shafts arced across the morning, thunking hard and home. The incoming assault faltered, stumbled. The lead riders fell, tumbling over and over in tangles of legs and arms and reins and kit. Horses whinnied, riders thrashed, a plume of dust followed several of them, skidding, down the hill. Behind them, other riders jumped by instinct alone.

From the defenders, there came a ragged, vicious cheer – a first blow struck.