Ecko Rising

by Danie Ware

  But noon had come and gone and no sheriff had manifest to demand his sippin’ whiskey. Now, the evening was warm, the sun low and red and fat. It rested on the rickety roofs and sent long, bloody shadows through the dust.

  And Ecko was crouched on the bar top like a silent and stone thing, realising something that annoyed him...

  He missed Lugan.

  Missed his humour, his decisiveness, his forward motion. Lugan would’ve been on the move already, shaking shit down, sorting shit out. None of this “the world’s had a nightmare” crap.

  Hell, he’d’ve been the one causing it.

  Across the heave of bodies, the front doors were propped open and revellers spilled out into the dusty roadway, laughing. On a nearby bench, leaning back with his black boots on the table, Roderick lived up to his moniker with a stringed something-or-other that he apparently played with some skill. His listeners stamped their boots in rhythmic appreciation and sank more booze.

  Ecko wanted to rail at him: Get up, already, ask some questions, detain someone, torture the shit outta something – just move! His adrenal boosting was misfiring, twanging on his nerve endings like anxiety. He flashed random crosshairs. Go on, kickstart it, you know you wanna! Hell, a bust-up might shake something loose.

  Lugan would’ve known the danger signs, distracted him, given him something else to focus on – in here, no one even looked up.

  Behind the bar, Karine had a sweat on. She and Silfe tapped barrel after barrel. Every so often, Sera would stir himself to roll one away through the kitchen door, and then come back with a full one on his shoulder. There was no sign of Kale – only the lush food smells that the door wafted in Sera’s wake.

  More stink.

  Jeez, it was suffocating in here.

  Ecko was used to people, the crush of the crowd, the press of flesh – but this? Too much reek, too much skin and dirt and resin and critter. The smells were closing in around him like street kid bullies; his guts were still playing up from the change in diet. Chrissakes, he couldn’t breathe.

  You gotta love the grand-quest-fantasy-romance. No one tells you it comes with stink and gut ache and a lack of sanitary plumbing.

  “Oi. Make yourself useful, mush. I need water.” Behind him, Karine lunged for another ceramic bottle. She was sharp as a knife, fast as a circus juggler. Arachnid eyes and feline reflexes and hands that were everywhere at once. Remembering to wink lasciviously at the lad ordering drinks, she chased Ecko with a foot. “Well go on then!”

  “Who died and made you Empress?” Ecko half turned, found himself with a rope-handled bucket in his mottled mitt. He glared, his oculars flickering fire. “What am I, fucking staff now?”

  “You live here, mush, you work.”

  The lad paid for his drinks with a twist of something in a tiny cloth bag.

  Salt? Sugar?

  Columbian?

  Ecko curled a black-toothed grin.

  The lad grabbed his ale and retreated to safely. Muttering, Ecko took the pail and ducked out into the yard. Fucking with the drinkers was at least one way of cheering himself up.

  * * *

  When he returned, the room had stabilised, grown a tight edge of focus like the silent rasp of a whetstone.

  His reactions instinctual, he handed over the bucket and was back on the bar top, crouched, cowl down, one shoulder tight against the wall. He curled still, adrenaline wary, nerves shivering with anticipation – but Sera stood casual, arms folded. Chrissakes, the doorman’d almost cracked a grin.

  Curious, Ecko followed his gaze.

  Well, he thought dryly, whaddaya know.

  In the centre of the room, ten or so drinkers had collected loosely round a clutter of tables, others had gathered to watch. Flicking his targeters, Ecko took note of emblems stitched onto jackets, woven bands around wrists and forearms. Some of the drinkers had standardised weapons, bound into belt-rings by lengths of braided string.

  Military? Name, wristband and serial number? They sure as hell drank enough.

  Some of them, though, looked like something else entirely.

  “Who’s up then? Go on, you know you want to.” Commanding the tables was a small, tightly sprung woman, rattling a leather cup in one slim hand. She was the first exotic Ecko’d seen: skin, hair and eyes all different shades of bright yellow-gold. She almost glowed in the sunset. His heatseeker showed skin-warmth, a fierce energy that burned from her like she was radioactive. In each of her cheekbones was embedded a pale stone like an opal, cooler than her skin, but shimmering in the dying of the light.

  She wasn’t beautiful, but the force of her presence was undeniable. Her deft fingers cleverly flicked the angles of the cup.

  Almost in spite of himself, he grinned, a slash of darkness buried deep under the cowl. Looks like we got us a card sharp. He spun his telescopics and watched.

  “C’mon, then!” She was daring them. “Doesn’t Larred Jade compensate you? You can’t all be cleaned out.”

  “CityWarden doesn’t compensate us!” Ribald challenge and friendly abuse answered her, the gaggle of onlookers called for drinks, bets.

  At the bar, an older bloke nudged his mate and called, “Go on, Triqueta, take ’em all on!” There was laughter.

  Still flicking readouts, Ecko watched.

  Across the scarred tabletop, one man unwrapped a red, metal bracelet – copper? – and chucked it into the pile, another had a chip of stone, striated with colour.

  The woman, Triqueta, chuckled and rattled the pot again. The slanting sunset edged her in bright neon – she was a holo-projection, a fantasy. She had the room and she knew it. Grinning, she threw her hair over her shoulder – but the move was a distraction. Ecko’s targeters caught it: her other hand was twisting the cup with a long-practised gesture.

  You cheeky fucking bitch...!

  She was cute, all right, smart, fast and intruig–

  Oh for chrissakes.

  In his head, brakes screeched. Long wheals of rubber scarred his thoughts as they careened to a dead stop.

  You hafta be kidding me.

  The blatancy of the gameplay floored him completely. For an endless, timeless moment, Ecko’s breath was a ball of disbelief tight in his throat.

  Basic instincts... no way...

  In front of him, the woman called, “Any more?” She mock recoiled, laughing, as they cussed her.

  On the bar top, Ecko watched, now captivated for a completely different reason. He could see what Eliza was trying to do, see the moves that she was making...

  Oh no you fucking don’t. This is one damned psych test I can’t take.

  A leering patron whispered something in the woman’s ear.

  She laughed, but her elbow in his chest sent him crashing to the floor, his ale – splosh – in his face. Around him, guffaws and slow handclaps celebrated his fall.

  The blow wasn’t malicious – but was hard enough to make the point.

  Sera shifted, a gentle ripple of warning. Ecko stayed exactly where he was, barely daring to breathe in case she looked up and that cleverly orchestrated gold chain snapped shut its last shackle...

  C’mon Eliza, don’t do this one...

  The woman rattled the dice one last time, then threw them across the table. They clattered to a stop. A circle of groans echoed round her. A couple of gamblers scraped back stools and headed for the bar.

  “Wish I knew how she did that.” The older man at the bar shook his head and his companion chuckled.

  “If you did, mate, we’d all be living like lords in a Padeshian brothel.”

  They turned back to their ale jugs, chuckling.

  Unmoving, his cowl down over his face, Ecko watched motionless, as though he could see the very fractal ripples spreading from this single, poised moment...

  So. I go one way, the pattern does one thing, I go the other, it does something else? Which way’s right, for chrissakes? Which way gets this damn thing done?

  Beside Triqueta, her admirer was picking h
imself up. He was clearly absolutely rat-assed: stumbling, muttering, his movements erratic. As the woman dropped the dice – one, two – back into the pot, he plonked himself by her side and reached for the jug.

  His movements were slow, blurred by booze, but deliberate.

  Watching the tableau unfold, Ecko was utterly silent, caught on a realisation – on the apex of a sudden, adrenaline rush of understanding.

  It wasn’t just this decision – it was all of them. His every choice, tiny as it may seem, would affect everything else that he did, everything else that happened around him and to him and so on...

  Jesus. Trying to wrap his head round the sheer size of this was gonna drive him batshit.

  “’Nother round then!” Triqueta rattled a cheerful, rhythmic tattoo with the dice pot, caught the sightline of one of the vets at the bar and winked.

  The bets started again – and a round of jeers as several of the soldier types shook their heads and pulled out.

  Beside her, the leerer had descended into glowering. He refused to bet, just sat there, hands round his mug. She gave the pot a final shake and threw the dice again.

  The groans redoubled. A pile of treasure was pushed over the tabletop.

  The drunk muttered, “I saw that.” He came to his feet, swaying slightly, then sat back down with an unsteady thump. He was shit-faced, anger rose from him like whisky fumes.

  Sera was already moving, swift and quiet. Ecko’s targeters hit there, there and there. If he’d wanted to, he could’ve kicked the fucker into the middle of next week, rescued the damsel and made his decision, made the pattern ripple and change round him...

  But he had a better idea.

  No, Eliza, I hadda give up girls. My mom told me.

  Grinning, he slunk from the bar top like a sliding shadow, a soundless, scentless patch of darkness that flowed across the floor.

  “I said I saw that!” The drunk was up and reeling. “You damned cheating bitch.” Turning to glare at her, he made a clumsy grab for the pot. “Damned Banned – you’re all fil–”

  Sera didn’t get close. A sharp back blow of the woman’s fist broke the drunk’s nose. He spluttered and fell back, a hot rush of blood exploding down his already-soaked shirt.

  “I warned you once, sunshine.” She dropped the pot, stepped back from the impact, hands wide, but her sharp, yellow eyes looking for the next threat. “You saw that, right?”

  “Oi!” Another of the grunts was on his feet, stool going over “You’re out of line, bitch!”

  “Don’t sweat it, mate,” a third one answered him. “He had that coming.”

  “Chearlshit. If she’s not damned cheating...!”

  “I’m not cheating, you sonofamare.” Triq wiped her bloody knuckles on her breeches and grinned. “I’m just lucky.”

  They were all moving now, stools crashing backwards, raised voices, accusation and drunken indignation. The two older guys at the bar rolled their eyes and set down their mugs.

  Ecko was close, so close, he was almost under the table.

  Brawl kicking off in t-minus...

  “Enough!” The doorman’s bark reverberated from the walls. He had the bloody-nosed drunk by collar and belt – a moment later the guy was sailing out of the door and into the dust.

  Triqueta backed up, hands still wide.

  “Hey, you know he had that coming.”

  Sera nodded brief assent, rounded on the nearest and loudest. He closed a fist in the front of the shirt thing the bloke had on, and propelled him smack back into the wall, snarling. Karine reached for a bottle.

  For a moment, Ecko thought she was going to smack the nearest patron over the head with it and he grinned. Any second now...

  But she was smarter than that. With a deep breath that swelled her cleavage, she bawled, “Okay you lot! This round’s on the house!”

  Loose cheers scattered the aggression, the brawl dissolved before it began. As Ecko returned to his point on the bar, Karine winked at him. “Cost us less than the furniture.”

  In spite of himself, he chuckled, his adrenals uncoiling.

  Okay, Eliza. Let’s see what you do with this...

  He had the goldie girl’s dice in his lithe, mottled hand.

  * * *

  In the chaos, Triqueta of the Banned had slipped deftly – and tactfully – out of the tavern’s front door.

  Swift and silent, like the final flicker of daylight, she’d untethered her little palomino mare and left the dusty noise of the ribbon-town behind.

  Free.

  The sun had gone, sunk to its death upon the distant Kartiah, and rich blue darkness drove the last of the light to frame the mountaintops. Triq tightened her knees on the mare’s warm, bare back and she rode away from the ribbon-town, from the Bard’s ale and music, from the squabbling drunks of the Range Patrol and her own Banned family.

  Much as she loved them, there were just times...

  In the midst of the almost-brawl, she’d lost her fireblasted dice. She’d split her knuckles on that sonofamare’s face and the young patrolman she’d had her eye on had wandered away... Triq knew when her luck had run out. It wasn’t her night and she was better off wrapping her thighs around the flesh they needed the most.

  As a kid, Triqueta had been fostered in the unrolling, ramshackle poverty of a trade-road ribbon-town. She’d been quick with feet and fingers before she could count. At six, she’d returned to her mother in the Banned – but held to the philosophy of her errant desert sire: celebrate your life, live for the now, take what you will, but hurt none.

  Above her, two moons slowly rose to sail the ripples of cloud. Oblivious to the world below and ever in opposition, they lit the wild grass to a brilliant shimmer of light.

  Like the stones in her cheeks, the desert was still in her blood. She was wild souled and happiest under the sky.

  She’d not seen her sire since she was a kid – not even when her mother was killed by scuffling road-pirates. As Triq’s little mare cantered way out across the edge of the sleeping farmlands, she let drop only an idle thought – that family was what you made it.

  It made her smile – a touch of the warmth of the red sands at the centre of the dark Varchinde.

  In the far distance, she caught a burst of laughter from the rugged Banned campsite – doubtless Syke, Banned commander, was hosting the remaining Range Patrol soldiers in a booze-laden campsite party. Syke had many and interesting ways to stay on the right side of the local soldiery. Triq chuckled quietly and leaned windwards, steering the mare away from the campsite, the tavern, the river, the final scattering of Roviarath’s tithed farmland. Uncaring of the danger – she was Banned for the Gods’ sakes! – she headed north-east, for the open plain.

  The little mare seemed glad of the run. She lengthened her stride, mane flying, shoulders churning with power and warmth. The grass parted for her, whispered as she passed. The wind raced cold past Triq’s skin and her chuckle became a laugh, gleeful in the emptiness.

  Sensing her rising mood, the horse put her heart in it and began to really run.

  They left the roll of rural life behind them. The night was the sound of the grass, the strength of the animal that ran through it, her rhythm swift and clean. In the vastness of the dark, the moons, brother and sister cursed to be ever in opposition, rode with them, shining cold. Triq loved to lose herself in the Varchinde, the desolation elated her. She was tiny against the measureless grass, the infinite sky, yet its euphoria was with her and she wasn’t alone.

  The sounds of the campsite had all but faded. Triq leaned back, bringing the mare to a halt.

  She sat, breathing.

  Faintly over the sound of the river, she could still hear them – a scattering of distant hilarity snatched away by the wind. If she looked back, she could see the tiny, red fire-points of the campsite, and the faint, glimmering skein of the ribbon-town’s windows. Brighter in the dark mid-air was the great, white eye of the Lighthouse Tower at Roviarath, heart and hub and lynch
pin of the Varchinde’s lifeblood trade. “Here is help,” it said, “find me to find safety.”

  Triq turned her back on it and tightened her thighs. The mare moved into an easy walk.

  Banned and soldiers faded into the grass.

  Away from rocklight and fire, the moons dusted the sea of sward to yellow and white, washing past her like water. The mare walked calmly, her head up and her ears forward. Triq rested in the ease of her movements. She’d known this creature from a foal, raised her and trained her – and she was a friend.

  Face turned to the wind, eyes closed, Triq rested her hands on the warmth of her soft hide.

  At the gesture, the mare stopped, throwing her head up and back. One forehoof thudded uneasily. Triq tensed, eyes snapping open, hand going for her small belt-blade. Her thighs urged the creature forwards.

  The little mare refused. She danced back several paces, snorting.

  What...?

  Nervousness tickled her skin, Triq trusted the animal’s moods instinctually, relied upon her. If she smelled something, something was there.

  She was chillingly aware of how small they were – herself and the horse, two sparks of life – tiny in the emptiness.

  She had come out without her saddle, no tack, no weapons – only a belt-knife more useful for cutting dinner than pouncing bweao. Holding tight to her alarm and keeping absolutely silent, she stroked the mare’s shoulder and allowed her to back up. It was a Range Patrol, perhaps, or maybe late-night road-pirates. The big predators didn’t come this close to a ribbon-town – and the recent rumours of monsters were tavern-tales to scare the city dwellers.

  Weren’t they? There were no such things as monsters.

  She listened.

  Wind, water. Grass. She shivered – how had it got so cold? – and made herself sit absolutely still. Her shoulders prickled with tension.

  Slowly, she turned around.

  But there was only the white eye of the lighthouse, the rippling wash of the light.

  Triq’s heart hammered, but her gaze was steady. She inhaled and the slim muscles across her shoulders tensed, flexed. Belt-knife or no, she wasn’t about to open the odds on being any beastie’s late-night snack.