Ecko Rising

by Danie Ware

  But Karine was not slowing down.

  “Silfe,” she called to the waif, “can you get me the loose terhnwood? And the scales? And Sera, can you sort the loading? I don’t want the chain through here, take them round the back and load directly. When they’re done, send them to me.”

  “Ecko,” Sera said. “How d’you fancy joining me on a loading crew?”

  “How d’you fancy a new asshole?”

  The pale-haired man turned fully from the view of the water. Ecko watched him, daring him to start – what’d they said about him killing nine people? – but he said only, “It seems we already have one.”

  That one caught Ecko clean under his guard. He spluttered, “You –”

  “Whoah.” Roderick placed a hand on Ecko’s shoulder. “It’s far too early to be starting fights. If you wait until after breakfast, we’ll all come outside and watch.”

  “Yeah, maybe you can make a wager.” Shaking off the contact, he looked for a corner, somewhere away from the door and the light and the banter and the incoming people. “I still dunno if I’m even staying... Jesus Christ enough already!”

  Another door had banged open, startling him. This one loosed the scent of cooking flesh – blood-rich and suddenly, strongly reminiscent of his early childhood. Meat – real animal, raised and killed and carved and sold... The smell was powerful, enticing, slightly sickening. Echoes of his mother’s children’s home swamped him, too many people, too much noise, too much to take in...

  For fucksake!

  It was overpowering. He gripped the hard edges of Lugan’s lighter and backed to a table at the edge of the room.

  Gave himself room to breathe.

  The Bard ducked into the kitchen. Crouching on a corner seat and shrinking under his cowl, Ecko stared round at the taproom, at the sunlight, at the people, at the resin stuff – had they called it terhnwood? – hung on the walls.

  Analysing. Critical.

  Claustro.

  He didn’t need this – if he could grab that, that and as much of the meat as he could carry...

  ...but he couldn’t bust outta here ’til he knew his ass from his elbow – some random critter would crunch him for a mid-morning snack. He had to get the Idiot’s Guide, the one-oh-one download as to what the hell happened next. Then, God of Evil or no God of Evil, something was gonna get its ass kicked.

  “Are you hungry?” The Bard had returned with a pair of leather mugs in one hand. “Or are just wondering how much you can steal?”

  Ecko glowered at him – shadow skinned, black eyed, black mouthed – his look could send hardened street warriors screaming home for Mommy.

  Putting the mugs on the table, Roderick spun a chair round and sat astride it, its back between Ecko and himself.

  “So,” he said, “welcome to your first morning.” When Ecko still glared, he grinned. “What can I tell you?”

  “Gimme the short version. What I can eat, what’s gonna eat me, and where the Bad Guy’s at.”

  “It’s a little more complex than that.”

  “What – the God of Evil doesn’t have a bar tab?”

  “He’s notoriously bad at trading for his ales... Look.” The Bard picked up his mug as if checking exasperation. “You understand the importance of reconnaissance, intelligence. Knowledge is something I’ve spent my life seeking, and the little I have is –” he gave a wry chuckle “– not nearly enough. I have only rumour, stealthing in the grass like a hunting bweao, and its source eludes me.”

  Ecko bit back an immediate response and picked up his mug.

  “Rumour of what?” The stuff inside was herbal, it smelled like old socks and green tea. He took a mouthful and scalded his tongue.

  Outside, there were voices coming closer, and Roderick, with a glance over his shoulder at the door, began to speak more quickly.

  “There is much lore you should know, Ecko, lore that I alone have use for – but I fear this morning, the Count of Time is against us. For now, I will say only this: that we of the Grasslands are no longer warriors. Our last war is forgotten, the memory discarded. Our Elementalists, the priests of the people, once teachers and guides, have long since faded into tavern-tales and trickery. The Powerflux, the surge of element to element across the world, is gone and lost.” He reached up, took a resin blade from the wall and laid it across the table. In the morning sun, it shone like gold; it was exquisitely decorated and there was a mark, a symbol of some sort, carved into it at the crossguard. It was significant, but for the moment, Ecko did not know why.

  The Bard glanced again at the door. “With this long freedom from both strife and learning, we have become a culture dependent upon the cycles of our trade. Upon this.” He turned the blade to catch the light. “As Fhaveon took power in the Varchinde, so she became the greatest source of terhnwood – this resin and fibre that makes our every quintessential craft and tool. The GreatHeart Rakanne gifted Fhaveon’s terhnwood to the plains in return for trade of wood, and stone, and food, and spice – and now, that trade is our lifeblood. To maintain that circulation, much of our population roves free, carrying craftmarked goods from bazaar to bazaar, from city to city, and this has swollen our trade-roads into ribbon-towns and markets and caravanserai. There are pirates, of course, and there are soldiers to face them; there are farmlands that tithe into the cities for terhnwood of their own. The system is complex, warded by craftmarks and tallies and tithehalls – Karine could explain such things to you more than I.”

  “What – terhnwood makes your world go round?” Ecko wasn’t laughing. Something about the Bard’s plea was chillingly familiar.

  Our last war is forgotten, the memory discarded.

  There were feet getting closer on the path outside.

  “We are complacent in our comforts,” Roderick said, “and ruled by our merchants. Our satisfaction is surpassed only by blindness. Yet now, rumours rise like figments, hauntings of imagination. And without our lore...”

  There was a shadow in the doorway, the sound of feet on stone and an awkward throat-clearing. “Um. Hello?”

  “Without our lore,” the Bard finished, “I fear they will surpass us and we will be lost.”

  At the door loitered a small gaggle of locals who’d paused, peering into the building as if it would haze out of existence like a mirage. As the Bard turned, they shoved one of their number forwards – a young man, a heavy bag in one hand and a hat wrung to a rag in the other. From his garments, Ecko’s mind instantly labelled him “farmer”.

  Sera stood like a wall, unspeaking.

  Karine called from behind the bar top, “Morning! Are you trader or worker? If you’re here to get legless, you’ll have to wait until highsun when we’re fully stocked.”

  “Please,” the young man said, looking from face to face. “I’m neither. I came to ask a question.”

  And he-eere we go... With a mirthless smirk, Ecko shrank back, watching. So – what’s it gonna be? Great Mage? Demon? Dark Druid? Put your cards down, Eliza, let’s see whatcha got...

  “Of course.” The Bard came to his feet. “What can we do for you?”

  When a fellow behind him gave him a nudge, the young man swung the heavy, drawstring bag onto the nearest table. It hit with a thump. Ecko’s oculars kicked and tracked, but the contents were heavy, motionless and cold.

  Dead, or he was a monkey’s asshole.

  The boy opened the string. With some effort, he pulled free a creature.

  Ecko spun his telescopics.

  The beastie was unfamiliar, but dead as fuck. It was doglike, long legged and skinny, though deep chested with powerful back legs and a balancing tail. It could probably stand on its hind paws if it had to, or spring extremely high – certainly high enough to see over tall grass.

  Intrigued now, Ecko shifted so he could see it properly. Oh c’mon, what’s it gonna do? Animate? Skeletal lich dog? Oh, you so know you wanna...

  The thing just lay there.

  Karine bawled, “Oi! Get that off m
y table!”

  But Kale was in the kitchen doorway, his face bothered and frowning.

  Ecko tensed, but the cook’s temperature was normal. He seemed puzzled, intense.

  Roderick ran a hand over the thing’s flank. He said, “Where did this come from?”

  The young man bobbed his head, twisted his hat. His friends had crowded in though the door and they jostled each other to see.

  “Please, we found it. It was alive – quite friendly really.” He looked upset. “We tried to feed it and it just died. My family’re farmers, we’re tithed to Vanksraat and our manor’s good to us, we’re only here for the fiveday trade-market. No one knew what it... we tried... and it just toppled over.”

  “All right, all right, easy.” Roderick shot a glance at Karine and she reached for a pottery goblet. “Have a seat and let me... dear Gods.”

  The smell was enough; it brought Kale right out of the doorway and drove Sera into the sun. The Bard, though, didn’t move a muscle. He stared as though his boots had been nailgunned to the floor.

  Ecko craned.

  The thing was rotting.

  Right there on the table – as the light touched it, it was superheating and dissolving into mulch. Its skin peeled back to muscle and sinew, black creatures invaded its flesh and ate it from the inside out. Organs swelled and burst and stank and dissolved, bones cracked and twisted. There was the faint smell of burning wood, a thin wisp of smoke.

  The scream was Silfe, the outrage Karine, but Ecko was transfixed, his oculars working, working. The heat was localised – some kinda spontaneous beastie combustion. Okay so it wasn’t a skeletal lich dog, but hey, it was still pretty fucking cool.

  The young man shook. His friends patted him as he turned away.

  But Roderick watched as the thing dissolved to ash and memory, as the invading creatures starved, perished in their turn, and were gone. There was a char mark on the table.

  The Bard said, his voice like stone, “Get me a brush.”

  His expression was bleak.

  As the young man was hustled outside and given a mug of green stuff, Ecko rather thought that shit had just gotten serious.

  * * *

  Ecko said, “So? What the hell was that?”

  The front doors of the tavern were closed. Sera was outside, talking to the boy; Karine and Silfe had vanished with stocklists. With Roderick now was Kale, his worn face troubled.

  “It was a nartuk,” Roderick said. “An alchemical cross – they’ve been extinct for hundred of returns. It’s also not the first... oddity... that’s been seen.” His fingers were tapping tattoos on the table. He glanced up at Ecko. “We’re unique here, we amass rumour from all places, much as we amass trade-goods. We’re a node, and our catch-net is very wide.”

  “So? What’s one dead critter?”

  “So, we were talking about myth, and rumour. I hear things from all over the world, and I piece them together. This isn’t just one creature.”

  Kale said, “It didn’t smell right. Even when he brought it in. It smelled –” he searched for a word and came up with “– wrong.”

  Ecko snorted. “That’s some nose you got there.”

  “I don’t understand.” The Bard stood up, fingers now rattling against his thigh. He was restless, pacing. “This is the first time our rumours have been realised. And nartuk... that lore is lost. We’ve not practised such alchemy since the high days of Tusien. This – all of this – both defeats and intruiges me.”

  There was a flare in the Bard’s amethyst eyes, a flame of something less than sanity – or something more. Hell, this place was getting more like a home-from-home asylum with each day, for chrissakes. Ecko watched, barely suppressing a grin.

  Maybe I’m not the only one who needs a shrink...

  Roderick took a breath. “Our world is afraid. In her thoughts, she fears something she can neither name nor remember. I’ve spent my whole life, everything I have, seeking to understand that fear. It’s why I have The Wanderer.” He picked up the small terhnwood blade that he’d shown Ecko earlier and gestured with it as he spoke. “I’m Roderick of Avesyr, Guardian of the Ryll, once hailed as the hope of my people. All my life, I’ve searched for lore and insight, and still, I don’t understand.”

  “So? Enough with the OCD shit. The guy’s outside, let’s interrogate the crap outta him. He tells us where he got it – we’re good. Let’s go.”

  Roderick said, “The Ryll is a waterfall, far to the north of here, where the thoughts of the world are manifest – and where her nightmare was shown to me. And you’re not going anywhere until I understand how this fits.”

  “How ’bout we just get off our asses –”

  “I’m not jesting,” Roderick said. He pointed with the blade, his expression cold. “The world knows fear. And this, this is a tiny fragment of that larger picture. There have been sightings and rumours all through the central Varchinde. It’s not just one nartuk, it’s more than that. It’s the beginning of something huge.”

  “Says who? It’s one fucking critter!”

  “Did you not listen? I am – was – a Guardian of the Ryll. I watched the thoughts of the world in the water. And I saw –”

  “Yeah, a nightmare, I got it already.” Ecko grinned. “How many mushrooms were you doing?”

  The Bard went white. He said, slowly and very carefully, “It’s not just one creature, Ecko. It’s the beginning. The world has a fear that she had forgotten – and we must assemble the pieces.”

  “Chrissakes.” Ecko came up to a half crouch, facing the Bard across the table. His targeters crossed Roderick’s forehead, the weapon in his hand. “It looks pretty fucking simple to me: wherever that thing came from, that’s where we go. We follow the trail, we do the Grand Quest, I get my hands on the God of Evil, he’s shish kebab, I go home.” He grinned. “This should be as easy as... hey, let’s say ‘a booze up in a brewery’.”

  “By the Gods, Ecko! Where do you think I got my scar? You talk so glibly of a ‘God of Evil’ – legend tells that there indeed was once a creature who may fit that description. I went looking for him – and I found nothing.” The Bard’s passion was powerful, but Ecko didn’t care. “There is so much more we must know. The soil of the Varchinde does show remnants of some ancient war – but I know not how the pieces fit together!”

  “This is bullshit!” Ecko snarled back at him. “You can’t just sit on your fanny in here doing shit-all, waiting for... what? The sky to fall on your head? Your God of Evil to drop in for a chat and a pint of the good stuff? Go question the guy with the nartuk. You should be doin’ your investigation or whatever, not –”

  “Investigation?” Roderick’s snarl marched Ecko’s own. “Ecko, I’ve been searching almost a hundred returns – I have dug every ruin, I have found every treasure, I have learned every tale, I have faced every foe. Wherever these alchemical creatures are coming from...”

  “Gimme a map, already, I’ll tell you where they’re comin’ from. Where’s your realm of death and decay? Your pits of fire and mountains of ash? That’s where the source is, that’s where the Bad Guy always hangs out – hell, his shadow’s rising even now.” He sneered. “Let’s get our butts down there and wake him the fuck up. We can take him an espresso.”

  “A what?”

  The tension in the room crested, paused, and shattered. Either side of the table, Ecko and the Bard were intent on each other – Ecko’s small, tight frame coiled in a crouch facing Roderick’s height and presence. Kale had quietly slipped away.

  Then, as if Ecko had snapped his back like the fibres of the resin sword, the Bard dropped into his chair.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, softly. “Sera is asking about the nartuk, and we’ll learn what we can. But unless we see something more, I fear Vanksraat can’t shed the light we seek.”

  “Save it.” Ecko’s snarl was subdued. “Feeling sorry for yourself won’t get you shit. Unless Eliza’s stuck me in some Kobayashi Maru, there’s a solution. L
et’s go get it.” He blinked. “Unless you’re any good with pentagrams and goats?”

  “When we come to the capital city, to Fhaveon, we can speak to Rhan. He is...” He stopped himself, then said, “...I shall be interested to see what Rhan makes of you, Ecko. Or perchance, if The Wanderer allows, I can take you to my home city, Avesyr, and the Ryll’s ever-falling water.” He stared at the broken sword for a moment, perhaps not even seeing it. “They will not welcome me.” Then a ghost of his former chuckle danced from the walls. “In the meantime, we can pray that our nartuk will give us some answers.”

  8: TRIQUETA

  THE RIBBON-TOWNS OF ROVIARATH AND THE CENTRAL VARCHINDE

  The Wanderer thumped with noise.

  The taproom was heaving with bodies and shouting and drunken laughter. The air was hot and close, it reeked of sweat and animal.

  Crouched like a bilious gargoyle on the end of the bar, Ecko reckoned he was going certifiably fucking loopy. The noise and the stink were overpowering, nausea had closed his throat and his nerve endings were sparking with exasperation. All he wanted to do was get on with this, track down the Uberboss and kick the shit out of it.

  Wasn’t that how this stuff worked?

  The nartuk’s owner had told them a simple tale – that the thing had befriended them en route to the fiveday market at the local tithehall. The poor, clueless bastard seemed more upset by its death than by the fact that it was apparently a thousand years old.

  Hell, wasn’t like they could even dissect the damn thing. Ecko would’ve given a hefty weight of that terhnwood stuff for some decent forensics.

  Communications.

  A fucking library.

  That morning, they’d jumped from the Vanksraat riverside to the ramshackle unrolling of a Grassland “ribbon-town”: one of the twin, thin stretches of deadwood that bled out along the trade-roads from the major cities. The place was a dump, abundant in two things: dirt and poverty. The roadway looked like some jingle-booted sheriff should have a high noon shootout and leave the bodies to rot like the nartuk had done.