Echo City

by Tim Lebbon

  Praise for DUSK by Tim Lebbon

  Winner of the British Fantasy Award for Best Novel, 2006

  “Totally original. I’ve never read anything like it—new wonders at every turn. One might subtitle it ‘A Riveting Work of Staggering Imagination.’ ”

  —F. PAUL WILSON

  “Lebbon has a way of throwing staggering images at you which you almost have to pause and think about before you can fully grasp. This is fantasy for grownups—and the ending made my jaw drop. This is an excellent book, and I would not say that unless I meant it.”

  —PAUL KEARNEY

  “Dusk is a deliciously dark and daring fantasy novel, proof of a startling imagination at work. Lebbon’s writing is a twisted spiral of cunning, compassion, and cruelty.”

  —CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN

  “An exquisitely written, unique world is revealed in this novel. It’s rare indeed to witness the conventions of fantasy so thoroughly grabbed by the throat and shaken awake. Even more enticing, this first novel in the series concludes with a jaw-dropping finale, and for what it’s worth, such a reaction from me is not a common occurrence.”

  —STEVEN ERIKSON

  “A gripping and visceral dark fantasy. Lebbon has etched a powerful new version/telling of the traditional magical quest, whose tortured twists and turns will (alternately) disturb and electrify its readers.”

  —SARAH ASH

  “A compelling, if harrowing, read … dark, nasty, and visceral and yet a real page-turner.… Definitely worth reading.”

  —SFFWorld

  “Well-drawn characters and a literate way with the grisly distinguish this first of a new fantasy series from Stoker winner Lebbon.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Dark, gripping swords-and-sorcery noir … A promising departure for horror novelist Lebbon.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  Praise for DAWN

  “A terrific horror fantasy … The story line is action-packed and filled with the usual creative war gadgetry that keeps Tim Lebbon tales fresh.… A superior tale.”

  —SFRevu

  “This sequel to Dusk again demonstrates Bram Stoker Award winner Lebbon’s consummate talent for viscerally visual fantasy [with] strong and unusual characters and a plot of epic proportions.”

  —Library Journal

  “The relentless imagination and evocative prose that made Dusk such a thrilling read are still in evidence … Lebbon has shaken up high fantasy with his duology, and it was a pleasure to read.”

  —SF Site

  Praise for FALLEN

  “Stoker winner Lebbon successfully combines quest adventure and horror in this gripping and disturbing tale.… Lebbon creates vivid and convincing major and minor characters, places and creatures, blending wonder and nightmare in this dark and memorable novel.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “The joy of reading one of Tim Lebbon’s Noreela tales is discovering what new surprises the author has conjured up.… Shocking, tragic, and haunting … Fallen is just another outstanding addition to the Noreela mythos, and every time I visit this terrifying yet fascinating world, the harder it becomes to tear myself away.”

  —Fantasy Book Critic

  “What makes this such a rollicking read is not only the plot—a fast-moving story, laced with action, a smattering of sex and a very pleasant sense of wonder—but also the way that Tim has used his obvious writing skills to produce a damn good yarn.… the best yet.”

  —SFFWorld

  “If Lebbon continues writing the Noreela stories to this high standard, the series could be as exciting as George R.R. Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire novels. 4 out of 5 stars.”

  —SFX

  Praise for THE ISLAND

  “Gripping … offers hope that the compelling protagonists can achieve believable heroism if they’re willing to pay for it.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “A uniquely terrifying horror fantasy that contrasts the homey comforts of a small seaport town with horrors that come from the realm of nightmares. A standout choice for most dark fantasy readers.”

  —Library Journal

  “Riveting … This stand-alone story is a pulse-pounding adventure with visceral thrills and Lebbon’s signature moral ambiguity … and Noreela is as inspired and fascinating as ever.”

  —Booklist

  ALSO BY TIM LEBBON

  NOVELS

  Noreela

  The Island

  Fallen

  Dawn

  Dusk

  The Hidden Cities (with Christopher Golden)

  Mind the Gap

  The Map of Moments

  The Chamber of Ten

  Hellboy

  Hellboy: Unnatural Selection

  Hellboy: The Fire Wolves

  Bar None

  Mesmer

  The Nature of Balance

  Hush (with Gavin Williams)

  Face

  Until She Sleeps

  Desolation

  30 Days of Night

  30 Days of Night: Fear of the Dark

  The Everlasting

  Berserk

  NOVELLAS

  White

  Naming of Parts

  Changing of Faces

  Exorcising Angels (with Simon Clark)

  Dead Man’s Hand

  Pieces of Hate

  A Whisper of Southern Lights

  The Reach of Children

  The Thief of Broken Toys

  COLLECTIONS

  Faith in the Flesh

  As the Sun Goes Down

  White and Other Tales of Ruin

  Fears Unnamed

  Last Exit for the Lost

  After the War

  Echo City is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Tim Lebbon

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Spectra, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-52270-2

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  v3.1

  For my sister Joan

  In conclusion, my despair: the concept that Echo City could be all there is; the thought that we are alone; the conceit that humanity rose from one man, expanding into one place, shunning the beyond though dangerous it must be. This is abhorrent to me. It denies our nature, which has been proven again and again to be exultant and brave. It disregards the very idea of our progress as a race and the ultimate triumph that must come. But such ignorance is clasped to the heart of those who claim rule over us. And though I see glory in our future, before glory, I see pain.

  BENJERMEN DAXIA,

  Truth—An Exhortation to Revolt

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20
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  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Thanks once again to editor extraordinaire Anne Groell, who always sees the big picture and helps me find it. Also thanks to David Pomerico and everyone at Bantam, my ever-wise agent Howard Morhaim, and all those writers and friends who make sure it’s never a lonely business. You are too numerous to list, but you know who you are.

  As it left the city, the thing did not once look back. It walked with heavy steps, looked forward with rheumy eyes, and its misted breath soon dispersed in the air. It did not look back, because its purpose was ahead, and large though this thing was, its brain was small and simple, its reason for being very precise. It moved away from the world and out into the Bonelands, and it would never return.

  Darkness concealed the start of its journey. It was aware of people in the buildings and ruins around it, but Skulk Canton was a place whose residents would keep to themselves. If they did not, its maker had instructed it to force their attention away. In its rudimentary mind, the idea of violence was little different from the process of placing one foot in front of the other, or breathing, or blinking its eyes to clear them of sand.

  For a while as it started across the desert, the ground still bore signs of Echo City. Rubble from tumbled walls marred its path, and it had to step aside or climb over. One spread of land was scarred with the evidence of digging, the reason and results long since lost to time. And here and there it saw the remains of a body.

  The moon’s pale crescent lit its way. Beyond the moon, countless stars speckled the clear, cold night. The thing had no concept of what moon and stars were, because they bore no connection to its purpose. But it looked up at them with curiosity nonetheless. Its maker had granted it that, at least.

  Soon it was away from the outer limits of the city. It walked as it had been instructed, avoiding places where the sands looked thin and loose and keeping to harder, easier surfaces. No plants existed out here, and no animals—nothing but sand and rock and the dry, heavy air it breathed. Sometimes a gentle breeze whispered a skein of sand across its path, and it held its breath as it passed through the brief, scouring cloud.

  Its body was clothed in heavy leathers. It had watched its maker constructing this suit, stitching together the garments of many normal people to create something expansive enough to cover its huge torso. The suit was tied around its bulky thighs, upper arms, and neck, and the exposed surfaces of its arms and legs had been sprayed with a thick dark lotion to ward off the desert’s inimical influence. Woven into the layers of leather were fluid sacs, in a network of narrow tubes that merged eventually beneath a thin, hollow bone straw protruding beneath its chin. It took frequent sips of water, and it was not long before the sips were tainted by the salty taste of its own perspiration.

  Its shoes were tied leather folded many times, spiked with iron studs to give grip. It carried no weapons. It bore no pack. The prints it left behind were wide, long, and deep, and they would command awe were they noticed in the days following. But by then the thing would be dead, and it would never hear the myths of its passing.

  As dawn set the eastern desert aflame, the thing marched on. It glanced to its left only once, experiencing a brief flare of wonder and awe. Somewhere deep down basked shadows of memories that were not its own, in which the view of such sunrises was interrupted by the silhouettes of spires and walls, towers and roofs. Such a natural, unhindered view as this was something all but unique, but the giant creature was not here to pontificate. It was here only to walk.

  The desert stretched before it. To the south, a low range of hills buckled the horizon. They were perhaps a day’s journey distant, though distance here was difficult to judge, and there were no maps of the Bonelands. It focused on the hills as it walked. By the time the sun had passed its zenith and begun its fall to the west, the hills seemed no closer, and it had to reassess its estimate of the time it would take to reach them. Beyond the hills, so every story said, there was only more poisoned desert. They were a meaningless marker at best. It might reach them … but probably not. Already it could feel the rot.

  It paused to eat. Sitting on its huge haunches, the reduced weight of Echo City now many miles to the rear, it felt the rumbling, gnawing processes inside. There was a little pain, but it could compare the sensation only to the shimmering heat haze hanging above the desert far to the west—an insubstantial thing that would vanish as soon as it closed its eyes.

  It closed its eyes, and the pain was warmth.

  When it stood and started walking again, it looked down at its bare, sprayed legs. The skin was peeling, revealing a dark red rawness beneath. Its feet were blistered and swollen, and several of the tight leather straps had burst. It kicked off one of the folded leather shoes, and it flapped on the desert floor as tight folds unwrapped. And then the shoe was still, and there it would stay forever.

  A while later the creature removed the other shoe, because wearing only one had been swinging it slowly around in a great arc across the sands. It corrected its direction of travel and set off once more.

  It had passed several bodies on its walk, but just as the sun touched the western horizon it came across the first of the ruined transports. It was a rusted, rotten hulk, its wheels skeletons of metal wrapped in the brittle remains of parched wood. The creature walked close and touched one of the wheels, curiosity lighting a small flame in its limited mind. The wood came apart under its clumsy stroke, drifting to the ground in a cloud of dust and splinters. A gentle breeze that the creature had not even felt carried some of the wooden shards away, and they added themselves to the desert.

  Before the ruined vehicle lay two great skeletons of the things that had pulled it this far. Pelts were draped across their bones in places, and within the stark confines of rib cages were the scattered remains of insides not yet burned to nothing by the relentless sun. Their horns were long and graceful, pitted now from the effects of the desert air.

  Here and there it saw the mummified remains of human beings. They had been riding the wagon, and perhaps when their beasts succumbed to the desert’s toxic influence, they had walked on until they all lay down together to die. The creature did not like to look at them. Though its maker had made it unique, somehow they reminded it of itself.

  So it walked on and stared at that undulating horizon, and sometimes the texture of the ground beneath it changed. But it did not look down.

  When dusk began to fall, it guessed that Echo City would now be out of sight behind it. But still it did not look back. The future lay before it—too far away to see, beyond its ability to feel—and as it considered what might come, the thing it carried inside seemed excited at the prospect.

  It walked through the freezing night. Its motion kept it warm, but all the while it felt itself sickening. The desert’s lethal, toxic influence was making itself felt upon the creature’s flesh and bones, its blood and fluids, and though built strong it was now becoming weak. Darkness was its friend, though under the silvery sheen of moonlight it could still witness some of its flesh’s demise. It was not worried, because it had not been made that way. But it did pause and stare up at the moon, and it realized that come dawn it would never see this sight again.

  Sad, unsure what sadness was, it walked on.

  When dawn broke on that second day, the creature realized just where the Markoshi Desert had gained its more common name.

  The hills were still distant, and speckling the surface of the desert before them lay thousands of bones. There were skulls, some still bearing the leathery remnants of scalp and hair, and a few wearing the wrinkled skin of their hopeful, desperate owners. Beneath and around the skulls lay the skeletons. Older remains were all but buried by drifts, but more-recent escapees from Echo City lay atop the sand. Many of them were still clothed in the outfits they had believed would protect th
em from the desert’s terrible actions, and beneath these, leathered skin was scarred with the rot. Most remains were whole, because not even carrion creatures could survive the Bonelands’ poisons. Some had been scattered, however, and here and there the creature saw evidence of violence having been wrought. It knew that the only living things out here to perpetrate such acts would have been other people.

  Their equipment lay around them where it had fallen. Bags, water skins, weapons, clothing, an occasional sled or wheeled vehicle, all had been heated by the relentless sun and cooled by the fearsome desert nights, and successive heatings and coolings had destroyed much. There was nothing here to aid the creature in its progress, and after a while it no longer paid heed to the strewn remnants of desperation and hope. It focused on the hills it would never reach, sucked water from the bone straw, and felt the thing inside it rolling and gnawing, making itself strong for the time to come.

  It could feel itself weakening, but purpose drove it on. Flesh sloughed from its exposed limbs, and blood speckled the sand beneath it. Its large feet had spread since shedding the shoes, and had it looked back it would have seen the trail of bloody footprints. Sand worked its way into wounds, and the creature felt pain despite the way it had been made, and taught, and given life. It howled, but there was no one to hear.

  Eventually it came to a stop among the bones and rocks and hot sands, sinking slowly onto its side and then its back, turning its head so that it could look across the desert at the low hills. They had drawn much closer, it thought, especially in the past few hours when it had been walking with the sun sinking to its right. It felt a sense of accomplishment and hoped its maker was pleased.