Ecko Burning

by Danie Ware

  Forest of Skaide and the Han-Shen Moors to the west, to the ragged line of the Belazian Range to the east. Northwards, a breathless climb might have taken him over the end of the Varchinde plains and into the tundra proper; south, the way he had come, Avesyr stood a silent and grey-walled guard at the mouth of the mountains - and she was a grim city indeed.

  A city dying.

  The blight had ravaged her crops and farmlands; the lack of trade had gutted her like a caught fish. Many of her people had simply fled. As Rhan had come northwards, both road and river had been laden with the lives of the beaten.

  The last surviving Guardians, those who had taught the Bard as a boy, who had outcast him for his heresy, even they were gone now - Rhan did not know where.

  He was alone, alone at the very top of the world.

  Carefully, he took a pace towards the edge of the stone, and looked down past his own feet.

  How does that old saying go? Third time lucky.

  And then he stepped off the edge.

  The water hit him like a fist. The cold was terrible, it robbed him of breath and tore the heat from his body. The fall battered him down, forcing him deeper and deeper under the Ryll itself, tumbling him helplessly, bruising his flesh, tearing his skin. There was anger in these waters, outrage and fury and helplessness and power. The hand of the Goddess his mother spun him headlong, thrashing him like an errant child.

  Take my life, Mother, if you will; I beg you, spare my soul.

  To confront the might of the Goddess directly was death; no man dared.

  Rhan was not a man.

  From somewhere there came the first spark of passion, borne from the anger of the Goddess and leaping through the water like a surge of rainbow lightning. What gave him the right to lie down and die, just because he could not bear to fail? He had moaned and slouched and blamed everything but himself, tried every way to avoid facing his responsibility. There was a battle to be fought, and he had to damned-well fight it, with whatever weapons he could garner.

  Get up, the Goddess told him, and get on with it.

  The force of the water tumbled Rhan’s helpless body like a toy, like the winds of chaos had once torn his wings. Yet now that force was a powerful, physical reminder of cleansing, of pleasure, of the strength that came from surviving pain.

  Flashes of the world’s thoughts came past him: the pulsing veins of the Powerflux, critically damaged when the OrSil, the soul of light, had sunk beneath the eastern sea; Kas Vahl Zaxaar, his brother awakening in power; Phylos ascending in blood and glory; Roderick - dear Gods - screaming in silent and impossible pain, his thin body stark with horror, his throat laid open, a scarlet wound; the hole in the world’s heart, the blight that crept ever-inwards; a slight man, eyes of pure darkness, skin that shifted with all the world’s colours; the shores of Rammouthe, as if seen across the bows of a tiny, wind-torn boat...

  Penya?

  She turned to face him as if she were the Goddess herself. Fight, you fool!

  Death was not an option.

  Knifing through the freezing water, Rhan swam out from under the pressure of the falls and headed for the surface, the water’s chill strength singing through every muscle of his body. His head broke free into the sharp air, the cold wind stung his face into a crackling of ice; his heart was burning with the chill, burning with the passion of it. It was impossible that he could contain this much strength without his skin ripping like silk.

  Rhan Elensiel raised his voice and cried aloud to the surrounding mountains, to the grey walls of Avesyr, to the Varchinde stretched out to the south.

  And that cry was a pulse of power, through the Flux itself, through the air, through the very rock. The mountains rang with it. His own skin flamed lambent with power.

  He could feel the soul of light, feel the Flux’s warp and weft - he could feel -

  Rhan raised his arm, though he already knew it - the binding that Phylos had put upon him was gone.

  The Powerflux was in him, woven through him, it was his to wield, as it always had been. Its strength was in his heart and soul.

  Now, my brother, he said to the bright cold sky. Now, I am coming.

  22: MANIFEST AEONA

  The creature’s laughter was ringing in Amal’s head, surging into his mind, his skull, his ears, his blood. It was not the soft, hot laugh of a threat or a tease, but a rich laugh of pure power, as if it knew that it had won.

  Amal began to tremble, feeling its strength within him, feeling his own heart quailing. For the first time, he wondered if he was really strong enough.

  And if, in that very doubt, his own death was assured.

  “Get out. Both of you.” His blade caught the light of the sun and his voice was flat, pure threat.

  Triqueta said, “Fat chance. Where’s Redlock? You’ve got ’til I count to... dear Gods...”

  Her voice tailed into open-mouthed horror, her jaw dropped lax. Amal didn’t know immediately what had stopped her, then he realised that he could feel his own skin changing, the heat rising in his face. The creature was massing its strength, coalescing like steam. It was wrapping its hands about the long returns of their bargain and it was straining at those bindings.

  And this time, it was breaking free.

  Triqueta stared, horrified. Amethea had fallen back, her hands at her mouth. Amal could feel the heat in his skin, the heat in his heart. He could feel the time-spirals twisting as they unravelled. He raised a hand and saw that his flesh was heating, he smelled like cooking meat. He should be screaming from the pain, but all he could feel was the sheer rush of ecstasy, of pure glory, that came from the creature as it rose.

  “Ecko.” The word came out of his mouth, though he did not say it. “You can free me fully, if you wish. The greatest destruction of all can belong to you. Maugrim, Amal, the nartuk, the Sical, your brimstone - all of these things are nothing compared to the weapons I can give you. Free me, Ecko, let me -”

  “No!” Amethea threw herself forwards. “For the love of the Goddess, Ecko, don’t. If you free it - it’ll kill everything. Us. You too.”

  Laughter came from Amal’s throat.

  But he was not laughing, he was fighting to take his own voice back, fighting to throw this thing, this possessor, back down into the place it had always lived, right to the back of his thoughts.

  Beside Ecko, Triqueta spat savagely onto striated stone. “You absolute little shit. I really should slit your throat myself. You’ve led us here on some damned chase, just to tell us that you don’t care? That you think it’s okay to just let this - whoever the rhez he really is - burn our world down? To help him? He’s going to wind your guts onto a drop-spindle and I’m going live long enough to watch.”

  Amal was helpless. The creature was moving him, shifting his arms and legs, the motions becoming more fluid as it grew used to holding control. A prisoner in his own thoughts, Amal threw himself against it, shouting. He may as well have thrown himself against a hot metal wall.

  He felt his hand tighten on the blade it held, felt himself look down at where Ecko lay.

  Felt the rush of saliva in his mouth, like a starving man faced with a feast.

  His mouth said, “You may fight me if you wish, or you may choose to flee. Either way, it will not matter. In just a moment, your time -”

  “Your time.” Amethea stared at his tattoos, at the crouching gargoyles, at the labyrinthine patterns of spirals that wove about the walls. Somewhere under the onslaught of the creature’s presence, Amal realised that she knew - somehow, this girl had worked her way through the maze, had followed the trail and found the answer none of them had come seeking.

  “Time - all of this,” Amethea said. “The spirals are all about the Count of Time.”

  The creature grinned with Amal’s mouth. “Come to me, little priestess. Come and tell me what you’ve learned. What Maugrim taught you.”

  “Stop yanking my rope.” Amethea was white-faced with horror, backing up, pushing Triqueta behind
her. “Ecko, haven’t you even realised who... what... this is? Haven’t you understood what you’ve - we’ve - been brought here to do? Saint and Goddess.”

  Even the sky seemed to freeze, poised to hear the words as they fell from her mouth, crashed to the stone below.

  She said, “This isn’t just some craftsmaster, some crazed old Tusienic alchemist. How could we have been this stupid?”

  “Then who am I?” The creature smiled like a predator, waiting for the truth. Amal had no doubt that the words would be death for all of them.

  “You’re the daemon,” Amethea said. “You’re Kas Vahl Zaxaar.”

  And Amal’s mouth smiled at her understanding.

  * * *

  Kas Vahl Zaxaar.

  The words hit the stone like the crash of a wave and Ecko saw it all, like a laser-flash, burned into his retinae. He looked at the one-eyed man, at the creature that was now living within him like live steam, eating him from the inside out.

  And something in him knew he was in the right place still, that nothing needed to change.

  He said, almost like a dare, “I don’t care if he’s fucking Merlin. This place is still gonna burn.”

  The alchemist, daemon, whatever the fuck it was, began to laugh. The man’s body heat was off the scale, Ecko could see the temperature even without his oculars - the shimmer of the superheated air above the man’s shoulders rising to the jaws of the gargoyles above. He should be slumping to melted flesh and charred sticks, but he was grinning like insanity and the blade was resting at the hollow of Ecko’s throat ready to carve him straight in two.

  Ecko’s adrenaline sparked, but he was so fucking beyond afraid. Beyond hope, beyond dismay - he didn’t care. He’d fucking won - he’d gone through the woods, he’d left the path - and this was the ultimate fuck you to Eliza’s control program.

  The alchemist, Kas Vole Zack’s Ass, whatever the hell it was, raised his eye-patch, showed the searing, burning orb beneath.

  Dimly Ecko could hear Triqueta, Amethea, but he couldn’t move. He didn’t want to. That eye had caught him like a hook buried hot in his face.

  Kas Vahl Zaxaar.

  The daemon, the daemon was really in there. He was a smoulder, a blaze, a burning lust of need, a fire of energy and purpose and strength. He was Maugrim and he was the Sical and he was more; he was everything that the Varchinde was not. Passion, rage, fallen starlight, steam and flame incarnate.

  And there was a hunger in him, something that he needed.

  The first cut of the blade went unfelt, Ecko could do nothing but stare at that eye, that window into the soul of the daemon. There was no pain, the blade moved and he did not feel it - instead, there was a sensation of pulling, an odd and momentary sensuousness that seemed to tug, tug again, and then stop, confused.

  The eye blinked. The blade stopped. Blood streaked, the pain cut in.

  The adrenaline cut straight over it a moment later.

  Ecko was tense, confused, wrists tearing at the metal that held him, uncaring as to what it did to his skin. He found himself shuddering, freaked the fuck out.

  “Let me up, let me up. What the hell was that?”

  Something was all the fuck wrong, that wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

  Ecko’s oculars were fizzling: he could see a figure, bright red robe, arms raised like he was fucking Christ Almighty. The man was on a balcony, scenes of destruction at his feet...

  Come to me, he was saying. Fhaveon is ready and I am waiting for you. Come.

  But the daemon, the alchemist, whatever, was stumbling, falling back. He was laughing, but that laugh was hollow now, it lacked the bass undertone - it was mortal, human once more. The man was slumping, grey-faced and sick, suddenly weak as a fucking kitten. He raised a hand to the eye-patch, Ecko heard him cry out, “No! No!” speaking to something that none of them could see. Then he’d fallen completely and the eye-patch was back in place, and the daemon had fucking gone, vanished up its own ass, vanished clean in the bright sun of the tower top...

  The gargoyles grinned.

  Ecko struggled to sit up. “What the hell just happened? What was that?”

  The alchemist was white-faced, wheezing weak laughter as though trying not to cry.

  “I played a game,” he said. His temperature was falling, his skin losing its outrage and seethe. “I played a game within a game within a game.” He was hunched, shivering, laughing, on the edge of hysteria. Ecko had to strain to keep him in sight. “All this time, since the moment we knew you were here, I’ve known what Vahl really wanted. I’ve known he would betray me. All this time, Ecko, and I’ve known the truth. Why, ultimately, his need would fail.” His laughter faltered, he coughed. “I’ve known... all along... that you didn’t have... the one thing, the key, Vahl really needed.”

  Amethea moved to the side of the table and winced at the deep cut in Ecko’s throat. But Triqueta stood over the alchemist.

  “What the rhez are you talking about?” she said. “What game? What did Vahl really need?”

  “You...” He was panting now, his breath short and his skin grey. “You know... Banned lady... because Tarvi... couldn’t touch him either. Daemons need it... like we need... air.” He coughed, cleared his throat, said, “He has no time... no time...”

  No time.

  Ecko’s skin crawled.

  The flickering digital readout in his oculars when he’d first arrived.

  No time.

  Tarvi’s passion, Triqueta in Amos.

  No time.

  The madman Ress, in the corridors.

  No time.

  The enlightenment was terrifying. He felt suddenly like he was in freefall, like nothing now made sense. How the hell did that happen, how the hell was it even possible?

  No time.

  It meant - did it? - that this world was somehow real.

  “You, Ecko.” The alchemist was still speaking, his voice and face fading to grey. He was shuddering now, his hands palsied. “You’re a stranger... come from another world. Our Count of Time... can’t touch you. But I had to hide it... from Vahl... right to the end. I had to distract... the daemon... play his game... or he might have remembered... that Tarvi could not hurt you...”

  Ecko snorted, bitter and painful. “Couldn’t hurt me, huh?”

  The alchemist laughed again, coughed flecks of blood. Then he said, as though his heart were broken. “But I lost... as well. Vahl never told me... he had another host...” He tried to haul himself upright, said, “I fear Fhaveon will fall. Now, come here to me, lady of the Banned. Help me to the parapet. I want to see the sea... before I die...”

  Triqueta was shaking her head, trying to understand. She blinked at the man, and then came forwards to extend her hand.

  Ecko tried to move, but Amethea was in the way, her hands all over him. He tried to call, to shout, to stop her...

  No, Triq, don’t... for chrissakes, don’t!

  Daemon or no daemon, Ecko didn’t trust that old fucker an-

  There was a disturbance in the air.

  Not like his vision of the man in the red robe - exultant and gloriating - the air on the tower was twisting in on itself, sickening. The sensation was familiar, somehow, something he’d seen or felt before - something that he knew deep in the darkest corners of his heart.

  He struggled, useless, against his bonds. “Fuck’s sake.” He swore as Amethea blocked his view, still trying to look at his throat. His stomach was churning, he was chafing his wrists, hurting himself, but he had to see, to see...

  He knew what this was.

  But it couldn’t be.

  No fucking way...

  Amethea turned, her own startlement taking her hands from his throat. Ecko stared, barely daring to believe. He heard Triqueta cry out and stumble back, away from where the alchemist had fallen; heard the alchemist wheeze disappointment like it was the last breath of his life.

  Then there was a soundless snap. There was a flicker of a reality that he knew, som
ething he recognised like the smell of the River Thames on a Sunday morning.

  Lugan?

  Beyond hope, beyond time, beyond worlds, could it be...?

  But it was not Lugan.

  It was the Bard.

  The gargoyles that leaned over them were frozen with impossibility. Ecko stared, the pain in his wrists and his throat forgotten. Amethea had fallen back against the table. Only the alchemist breathed, his wheezing laughter somehow framing the enormity of the moment.

  The Bard had come back.

  Back from the dead; back from another world.

  Ecko’s memories clamoured at him - this man was his conscience, his guide, his Jiminy Cricket. He could hear Triqueta saying, He died believing in you, hear Nivrotar’s need for the lore and learning of this man, for his guidance.

  But this man was not Roderick of Avesyr, the Bard that Ecko remembered.

  He was tall, grim. He was wearing a hoodie, for chrissakes, something so urban that it screamed out of place. His hair and face were covered. He looked like some stylised street-thug, angular and harsh, with eyes of stone. Something in Ecko’s head expected him to heft a crowbar with one hand and skin up with the other.

  But that something was a whim, buried. The rest of his mind was fixated on the fucking hoodie, the label, the zipper. His own thoughts screamed at him, looping insane...

  Where the fuck?

  Amal was trying move, to push himself backwards out of the hooded man’s path, but the man paid him no attention.

  He seemed unimpressed by the scene before him, took it in with a glance of cold eyes, showed no flicker of emotion or surprise.

  Ecko’s head shrieked questions. Where was the tavern, Karine, Kale, the others? Had The Wanderer been in London, for chrissakes, how the fuck was that even possible?

  The man strode across the tower like he owned it, boots slamming hard on the stone.

  He said to Amethea, “Get out of the way.” His voice was -