Ecko Rising (34 page)

“Not that you needed any.”

“Triq?” For a moment, he stared as if she were about to vanish – a Varchinde vision, a shimmer of sun. Then he dumped the goblet and grabbed her wrist, stood up to cover her in a huge hug and pound on her shoulder. “Gods’
teeth
, what’re you doing in this dump?” He stood back, gripping her arms. “Let me look at you, mad wench. You don’t look any different. And those rocks are still damned ugly!”

“I’ll kick your arse.” She shoved him affectionately, touched the gemstones in her cheeks. “I’m here looking for you – stuff you need to know.” She had no idea where to begin. “Sit yourself down, Red, you’ll need more wine.”

The barkeep scuttled out with a faded skin. Redlock filled his goblet for her, took a swig from its neck.

“Ack. Stuff tastes like piss.”

“Probably is.” Triq grinned at him. “Pull up a bench, you oversized grunt – this is going to take a while.”

* * *

It took a while.

As Triq told, at last, how they’d brought Feren to Roviarath and what Larred Jade’s response had been, Redlock was elbows on the table, hand on his forehead shielding his eyes.

It was dark when she was finally done. Tallow candles gave grey smoke and bad light, two empty wineskins lay shrivelled on the tabletop.

Triq laid a slender, sunshine hand on his muscled forearm. “You okay?”

“Thinking.” For a moment, Redlock didn’t move. Then he looked up at her from under his brows, his expression stone sober, his mouth a dangerous line. “Feren died?”

“Jade tried everything.”

“Then we go straight for the Monument.” His decision was absolute. “We’ll scout the ground and locate the creature – whatever the rhez it is.”

“What, now?” Triq chuckled at him. “I only just got here!”

“First light.” He wasn’t laughing. “The horse I’ve got’s solid, he’ll run. If you look after him and we don’t stop, we’ll do the Monument in – what – two days?”

“He’s not a Banned horse, Red, you’ll run him into the ground.” Triq snorted. “This monster –”

“Is history.” His expression was grim, brown eyes glittering in the candlelight. “You offed two of them, how much bigger’s this one? We can take him, no worries. The mares’ll scatter – you
know
that – shouldn’t be too hard for the soldiers to mop them up.” He flicked an eyebrow and grinned, sharp as an axe-edge. “And I guess we’d better find Feren’s teacher while we’re at it.”

“You’re crazed.” No, he hadn’t changed. He was resolute, forthright – a man with no concept of “impossible”. She grinned at him, shaking her head. Candlelight reflected from the stones in her cheeks. “You and I?” she asked. “By ourselves?”

“You’re damned right ‘by ourselves’ – don’t want your noisy lot messing it up.” He laid his callused hand along her jaw, gently turned her to look at him. “I’ve known Feren since he was a knee-biter. When he was five, I made him an axe with a soft leather head – he and my daughter Raevan used to play ‘road-pirates’ round the orchards.” The touch was gentle, but his insistence fierce. “Jade’s a smart bastard.”

“I’m coming with you, bet your life on it,” she told him. “That monster’s huge. Feren said it was
terrifying.
”

He flickered a smile, and his thumb stroked her cheek. “So am I.”

For a moment, they were eyes on eyes, breathless, waiting.

Heart suddenly thumping, she turned into his hand, kissing the skin of his palm. When he didn’t move, she slipped her mouth around the tip of his thumb and ran her lips and tongue over him, her eyes catching his with a mischievous gleam.

“So are you, it seems.” He watched her with a half smile. “You’re not a girl any more.” She bit him, taking mock offence and he laughed. He came round beside her on the bench, watched her expression for a moment, then gathered her into his lap, turning to kiss her with a strength and sensuality she remembered –
Oh Gods
– all too well.

She kissed him in return, wrapped her arms round his neck. Felt him harden like a promise under her buttock.

“Good to see you again,” she said, grinning.

“You’re a madwoman,” he told her. “Why didn’t Larred Jade muster?”

“Why do you think?”

He chuckled, kissed her again, briefly. “He’s a mercenary bastard and we both know he’s using me. Us.”

“Red...” Self-conscious now, she pulled away from him. “Feren was your blood...”

“And I’ll fight for him willingly – and Larred Jade damned well knows it.” He grinned. “That monster’s going to be horse steak by the time I’ve finished with it. Then I’ll be having a little
word
with the Roviarath CityWarden.”

She moved in his lap, relieved. “I don’t doubt it.”

“You shouldn’t,” he said softly. “After all, the old sod knew what he was doing when he sent you to find me.” His lips brushed her cheek. “Like I could say no to you.”

“Let’s face it, who can?” Chuckling impishly, she pulled him closer, kissed him again, felt the gentle growl of appreciation though his skin, his mouth. He buried his hands in her hair and kissed her back – hard, eager.

Anticipation thrilled sparks in her blood – she remembered how good he felt, over her, under her. She’d once ridden him so hard he’d begged, laughing, for mercy... then he’d slid his hands beneath her buttocks and pushed upwards into her, not stopping until she’d come, and come, abandoned and wild, head back, hands in her hair...

For a moment, he pulled back, the lines round his eyes crinkled in a grin.

“So,” he said softly, “You’re staying here tonight?”

“Uh-huh.” She shifted her weight until she was astride him, facing him, pressed hard down and into him, her agile fingers teasing out the warriors’ knot in his hair. “Unless you had other plans?” Her raised eyebrow said it all.

“Hardly.” He pulled her closer, murmuring again at the pliancy of her body, the strength in the grip of her thighs. His thumbs brushed her nipples, hard against the inside of her garments.

She shivered, her back arched, her hips pressed forwards in a motion that made him catch his breath.

He kissed her again, his loose hair tangling round her fingers. Expectation smouldered – spiced by long returns of waiting.
Gods
, he felt good.

The barkeep, standing over them, coughed pointedly and held out a drop-key.

Redlock grinned. Triq was off his lap and key in hand, beaming shamelessly at a red-faced taproom, all eying their boots. Stopping long enough to pick up another skin of wine, they headed for his room, laughing like a pair of overgrown ’prentices.

* * *

The sun rose over the plainland, light slowly flowing eastwards from the grey and glittering sea.

Somewhere beneath the grass, perhaps in the very grass itself, the Elemental Powerflux of the world was awakening. Fire had roared from sky, burned grass and terhwnood and flesh. And where there was flame, so ash and death had followed.

But in this place, the grass was green, heads of windflowers bright scatterings of colour. The sun lit the dark hides of two chearl, standing picketed by a single basher, tiny under the blowing clouds of the dawn.

The creatures slept standing up, the campsite around them quiet. They flicked their ears, their great chests rumbled at their dreams.

Ecko awoke to rain, pattering gently on the stretched-taut fabric over his head.

Beside him, a curled female shape was quietly shaking. It took him a moment to focus, then he understood. Her hands over her face, Tarvi was curled around her horror, turned away from him and twisted in pain under her bedroll.

Crying for Pareus, for her patrol perished to the last man and woman.

They’d been no more than kids, for chrissakes.

They’d been so much code, mathematically generated from his previous decisions.

They’d died with courage, and screaming.

Pareus...

Jesus fucking shit.

Unsure – almost embarrassed – Ecko turned onto his back, watched the rain running down the tent sides. Pareus’s death was haunting him, and he had no fucking idea what he was supposed to do about any of it... When his sisters had turned on the waterworks, it was because they’d
wanted
something – attention, influence...

But the image of the tan commander, picking up his sword with half his fucking face hanging off... it was burned into Ecko’s forebrain like a brand.

Real or not, the boy’s death mattered.

It
hurt
, like the loss of a friend.

Carefully, he untangled the bedrolls, curled himself about Tarvi’s back. He didn’t speak – had no idea what he’d say – but his arm went over her and he brought her against his steelwire chest, his bare skin mottled the dark brown-grey of the tent fabric.

Now, she was really crying. Horror held in tight control was flooding out of her: gulping, wracking grief. She shook against him, her body soft and warm. She’d stripped down to her shift; he could feel her breast against his arm, her hair in his face, her buttocks soft in his lap.

Sternly, he asked himself what the hell he thought he was doing.

His reaction to her closeness was inevitable. His embarrassment redoubled, he tried to control it, held tight to panic... This was outside his experience, it’d been too long: he wasn’t the same person, physically, chemically, as the Tamarlaine Benjamin Gabriel who’d had the faintest fucking
clue
what to do with a woman...

With her this close, he was fifteen years old, for chrissakes, elated and guilty and wondering where exactly he was supposed to put his hands?

She nestled back against him, her sobs subsiding. Her softness in his lap was just too good – he knew he had to pull away but he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Somewhere in the back of his head, his own savage cynicism lashed at him –
You want affirmation? Wanna feel alive? Yeah, well feel this! –
but he barely dared breathe in case she moved.

Her hand reached backwards, stroked his hip, pulled him closer. His mottle-skin shivered at the touch, its colours now blending with hers. He was pushed right between her buttocks and straining at the light fabric of his pants.

Disbelief bounced somewhere between his head and his groin. This
so
couldn’t be happening...

She found the waistband, pushed them down, lifted the light fabric of her shift... and she was there, naked, warm, soft, wanting. He was so hard against her skin and finally, finally daring to move his hand to cup the breast so teasingly close.

She caught her breath, held his hand in place with her own.

As she turned her shoulders, he could see her profile, outlined against the lightening tent. Her mouth was open, her breathing becoming shallow. With a deft, easy twitch, she moved herself against him and rested the head of his cock against her outer lips.

Oh. Fucking. Hell.

Warning sirens screamed through Ecko’s head. He couldn’t do this, he so couldn’t do this – He’d given it up willingly when Mom’d remade him, he’d no fucking idea what that kind of adrenaline would do to his system...

But, for the life of him, he couldn’t have moved. Like a nervous virgin, he buried his face in her hair, her shoulder.

She moved her hand, parted herself for him, slipped down onto him – dear fucking God – a millimetre at a time, opening and moistening slowly as she slipped herself over him. She was tight, gripping him in smooth, sliding warmth and now he was the one shaking, his breath catching in his throat, against his black, assassin’s teeth.

She didn’t speak, whimpered in pleasure as she finally ground all the way back, taking him completely, his tightening balls resting, tickling, against her skin.

Then, with a shudder of breath, she started to fuck him in earnest.

* * *

As Redlock and Triqueta curled at last into sleep, so dawn stole westwards across the Varchinde.

Slowly, the sky paled to navy, to blue, to grey. The light crept up the trade-road towards the mountains, warmed the buildings of the ribbon-towns and the stone streets of Roviarath.

It lit the poorly fitting shutters of a cheap harbourside tavern.

Triqueta turned over, turned over again, and wondered where the rhez that headache had come from. She sat up to blink at a fully dressed Redlock, grinning over two steaming herbal mugs.

It was still raining; she could hear it on the window. She was tangled in a mess of cheap, itchy sheets. Her head hurt. As she downed the drink and got up to fumble for clothing, she wondered how he managed to look that capable on that little sleep. She splashed her face from the water jug and he chuckled at her torment.

They headed out into the morning, grimacing at the grey sky, sunk low over the mountaintops.

She was
never
drinking again. Really, this time.

Unaware of her rider’s pain, the little mare whuffled as Triq threw her saddle over her back – she was eager to run.

Triq sunk deeper into her cloak, wishing it would stop raining. Or hurting. Or both.

Slowly, as the morning swelled into noontide and the sun struggled to shine between the massed ranks of cloud, she began to emerge from the tensed head throb of morning-after pain.

And she found herself eying the grass.

They were taking a loop, not crossing through the city. They were closer to the mountains here, and on the meeting point of three rivers, the soil was rich and deep. The grasses should be lush – she should be dragging the mare’s head out of the grass with every fifth step.

But the plant life was tinged with black, like the edge of a nightmare.

Triq put her hood back, let the misting drops fall cool on her skin.

But she could feel a prickle of dread beneath their kiss.

In maybe a cycle, the grass would start to transform. From the Kartiah, all the way across to the sea, from the Khavan Circle in the north all the way to the far-distant Yevar, it would wash over with autumnal shades – reds, oranges, yellows, a hundred hues of umber and ochre. Its beauty was astonishing, as though the land burned with glory. This was the natural cycle of the world: this was how it should be and the cities and farms knew these rhythms intimately.