Ecko Rising

by Danie Ware

  But that still didn’t answer his basic incomprehension. Half a man and half a horse... it was loco.

  How could such things even exist?

  The Bard had raged about alchemy – about skills forgotten, lost in times disregarded. What kind of learning was necessary to graft a man onto a horse’s body? To keep it there? More than that – if these beasts were the two-return-olds, were they reproducing? Or being reproduced?

  Was that what had happened to Feren’s unfortunate teacher?

  Alchemy or no, he knew how flesh worked. And this was madness.

  In spite of the sun, he was chilled.

  The taer covered the gelding’s hide, soothing the terrible gashes in his rump and easing pain and bleeding. He blew through his lips and stood head down, buried to the ears in grass. Muscles in his shoulders twitched.

  Agitated, Ress stroked the horse’s sweated neck. Speculation was pointless – the monsters were real, they were real. He needed facts, and context, and he needed to extrapolate what the rhez this meant.

  Was Roderick right? All this time, had he really known some vast and sinister truth? It was crazed. And yet...

  ...no more crazed than what he’d just seen.

  The horse whuffled in pain, nosing the grass.

  Across the plainland, the girls were returning. Triqueta was back astride her little mare, Jayr walked by her head and he could see them laughing, gesturing as they retold their separate fights. Watching them, the ageing apothecary smiled, a hint of paternal affection they would never see – somehow, their loco victory didn’t surprise him.

  But the questions were still coming.

  His eyes tracked the descent of the aperios, the carrion birds, finally feasting on the creatures they’d followed for so long. Like a row of archers’ targets, Ress set up what he knew, re-evaluated everything Feren had told him. The monster – the stallion – was real. It was a fanatic – crazed. Its agenda could be anything. He had to know where it had come from, how it was possible, what else may be coming in its wake...

  The implications were terrifying. Ress’s whole comprehension of reality had taken a sharp smack round the side of the head. What had Roderick said? Just because you can’t see it –

  Behind him, the boy said suddenly, “Thea!”

  Startled, Ress turned – into a chill rush of shock when he saw Feren was sitting up. White faced in the sunlight, cold fever shining on his skin and his red hair a dark mat of sweat, he stared fixedly at the setting sun, the rising shadow of the Kartiah. His dry lips moved again, though the word was almost wistful, “Thea...”

  “It’s all right.” Ress was back in the cart, rummaging hastily through packs and bags for something to ease his tension. “Rest easy, Feren, we’ll find her.”

  He heard Triqueta laughing.

  But the boy stared straight ahead, the dying sun reflecting red in his eyes. He was shivering, slim body wracked with desperation, his wasted hands clutched at his covers. “Don’t leave me... with the monsters...”

  Monsters.

  The shadow of the Kartiah swelled as the sun touched the tops of the mountains. Like blood, red sunset light was flooding across the plain.

  The girls came close, softening their elation to silence as they saw the cart.

  “What happened to him?” Jayr threw the question at Ress as she went to check on her horse.

  “I don’t know.” Ress smoothed oil across the boy’s upper lip. Feren inhaled, inhaled more deeply. His eyes began to blink – at first confused, and then more heavily.

  “Can’t you see it...?” the boy said. Slumping now, Feren turned to look at the apothecary, struggled to focus. “The mountains... the shadow... I told her...”

  Triqueta said, “Poor kid.”

  “Brave kid,” Ress said grimly. He smoothed Feren’s sweating hair, gentle. “Rest now. You’re on the edge of hope. We reach Roviarath before the dawn.”

  “We’d better,” Triq said. “Whatever they are, soon they’ll know that we know...”

  The apothecary paused to look down at the boy, across at both women, then out towards the east, the Monument and the far distant sea. The Bard’s madness was touching him, twisting around the questions in his head, an odd, creeping sensation: Something isn’t right.

  He said, “I don’t like this.”

  Triqueta glanced at Ress. “You? Not got a rational explanation?”

  He snorted. “First thing – make sure Feren’s safe and cared for. Then, if Larred Jade hasn’t got answers, I’m going downriver.” He shook his head. “Light-alchemy, impossible monsters. Maybe the library has something.”

  “You’re going to Amos?” Triq stared.

  “He’s hurt.” Jayr was stroking her gelding’s long nose with one gentle, callused hand – and almost pouting. “I want to find these things.”

  “He needs time and rest,” Ress said. “And I’ll need a guard for the trip. Triq’ll take Jade’s patrols to find this thing.” He patted Jayr’s shoulder.

  “The Great Library’s a ruin,” Triqueta said. “Only thing you’ll find in there is mulch.”

  “Not if you know where to look.” He gave a brief grin. “Now, that esphen we were supposed to have for dinner – where’d it go? Don’t know about you two – but I’m starved.”

  12: COURAGE

  THE WANDERER, AMOS

  Deep in the tavern’s cellars, high in the packed-tight shelving, Ecko had been acquiring stuff.

  He’d clambered about like some strange four-limbed insect, scrabbling from stack to stack and shelf to shelf, exploring, learning, scavenging. One thing remained true wherever you were – you always needed a cache.

  And this was a helluva place to get one.

  Being down here was enclosed, familiar. It felt safe – even Kale the not-werewolf wouldn’t find him in all of this. And anyhow, if these cellars didn’t wind up in some underground tunnel system, then he was a monkey’s uncle.

  In the layers of shadow, no one could see him grin.

  Craft tools – tick; vials of toxins and herbs – tick. The substances were unfamiliar, but the learning might be fun. Explosives – a little harder to come by. At some point, basic pomegranate grenades were a must – and he was so gonna be inventing gunpowder as soon as he got all the bits...

  Stick that up the God of Evil’s scaly ass and light the fuse.

  He turned another corner, shelves and heaps and dust tails. There was a sliver of pale glitter over his head, moonlight on a tiny, cracked-mica pane. This was the most fun he’d had since he got here – with a little luck and a little chemistry, he’d have the Industrial Revolution in full fucking swing. Plus, there hadda be a giant-rat infestation down here someplace...

  The Bard’s cellars, though, were rodent-free. Wines were stored in racks of ceramic and pottery – a multitude of shapes, colours and labels that looked like a collection of souvenirs. Wooden ale barrels were more familiar; spirits were stored in squat, dark bottles that might’ve been stitched leather. There was no glass, no metal and a distinct lack of dangerous chemical compounds.

  Now that, Ecko figured, just wasn’t fucking fair.

  He kept looking.

  Somewhere over his head, it was deep night. The Banned were still singing – he could hear them, raucous and off key, stamping out the time. The goldie girl had vanished maybe an hour or so before. He still had her dice – six-sided but the corners blunted and the symbols unfamiliar – now added to his growing stash of goodies.

  Yeah, Eliza, Let’s see what the pattern does with that decision, huh?

  Ecko had made a den high in one of the racks. As he’d explored outwards, he’d found that the walls were brick, the mortar smooth. Under his feet, the flagstone floor was cold. Once, a flitting shape had made him start, but it was only the catlike thing he’d seen once before, lithe and warm to his heatseeker. It blinked at him and was gone.

  Not a single secret passage had given itself up to his dextrous touch.

  He’d passed t
hrough Kale’s pantry, eying the bunches of greenery, the dried and pickled vegetables, the shelves of unfamiliar produce. Some of it he knew by name, but he wasn’t convinced he trusted anything that didn’t come in shrink-wrapped plastic. Food that looked like animal still kinda freaked him out – never mind the fact he had no fucking clue what the animals were. Little fat fuckers, bug eyed and skinless, hung upside-down by threading one ankle though a hole in the other...

  From somewhere, a clattering made him start, a burst of laughter and boisterous comments. The noise made him curl back against the shelving, though it was a good distance away.

  There was no one down here.

  Yeah, this is my place now.

  Ghost silent, he crept deeper.

  As he moved onwards, he found it was harder to navigate. Tall shelves and sharp turns completely defeated his telescopics. Narrow corridors wound tight between overladen racks hung with soft streamers of dust. The floor left odd, uneven steps waiting to catch his cloak hem and make him stumble. This was Malice in Wonderland, some fucking loony trip, confused and chaotic and mazelike and thrilling... Maybe, if he went far enough, he’d uncover the prison, or the magical portal to the Major Bad Guy’s front room. Maybe he’d find some skeleton from the Bard’s closet – or a forgotten Questing Hero who’d died from boredom and bad beer.

  Deeper.

  Slowly, the light paled and grew thinner. The shadows climbed higher and wound round the stacks like smoke. The shelves were packed even tighter, here. It was a warren of nameless stuff, layers of wooden boxes that hadn’t been moved in years. There were piles of junk in corners, lying in wait like creatures of the dark. Now, skitterings hinted at inhabiting critters – apparently the cat had a union. There were no cobwebs, but the dust was as thick as spider-silk armour and unfamiliar beetley things crawled over it.

  Almost nothing had a label.

  Jeez, it’s like Christmas in here!

  Chrissakes, did they even know what half this shit was? Karine must have a full database in her fucking head. Nothing had numbers – was this what she recorded with her endless tally marks?

  A sudden, rhythmic stomping shook the shelves and made him grin blackly in the almost-dark...

  ...and then he wondered just how far away that sound had actually been.

  Shit.

  Aw c’mon already, I was kidding...

  The Wanderer’s cellars were larger than the floor of the tavern, a helluva lot larger. Surely there had to be more than booze and shopkeeper basics down here. Where were the rings and the gems and all that crap? Where was the cache of weapons and armour? Where was the monster and the big ol’ chest with the poisonous lock?

  His grin grew, black and wicked in the half-light.

  Where was the secret fucking door?

  In fact – sod that – where was the thing that made the tavern work? The control room? The magical whosit? He’d give his carbon-black eyeteeth to know how to drive this thing.

  Deeper.

  Creeping in silence and wordless hope – there was so gonna be treasure down here somewhere.

  What Ecko found, before he’d gone much further, was a wall.

  Flat and cold and absolute, it cut his progress dead.

  So much for White Rabbits.

  Now what was he gonna do?

  It wasn’t just bricks: the wall had been covered – painted? – with something and it was filthy, stained with browns and greens and streaks of rot. In places, it was cracked and crumbling. A hefty whack with a sledgehammer would knock the bricks loose like teeth.

  He wondered what the hell was on the other side – which bit moved with the sunrise, which bit didn’t. What would happen if something was half in and half out?

  Cursing the absence of heavy-duty steel – a crowbar’d be good about now – Ecko flicked his oculars to scan for an alternative.

  And he noticed something weird.

  He was crouched at the edge of a small, open area that seemed to face the wall itself as there was a slight downward dip in the floor. The only other thing down here was a single, monster barrel that he could’ve used to boat up the Thames.

  Hell, what’d he been saying about dynamite? Or was the Bard just ageing one motherlode of killer whisky?

  The barrel was unlabelled, and covered in crap.

  Great.

  Around him, the shadows fell in layers of grey, like phantoms. The air was chill and old and smelled only of rot. It was quiet, motionless, even the crawlies had packed their little crawly bags and fled. He shuddered, carefully scanning the tottering piles of shelving.

  No crowbar.

  No monster.

  He crept out to the centre of the dip, the middle of the wall. The shelves rose round him like an audience.

  Yeah? Well watch this.

  With a grin of defiance to the silent fears that lurked taunting in the darkness, his darkness, he spun hard and slammed one foot sideways into the mouldering paint.

  Don’t ever use a spin-kick in combat... but they’re great for kicking shit down.

  The impact was tremendous: it rippled almost tangibly through the air. The wall cracked, flaked, dust trickled to the floor. He exposed brick like bruised flesh.

  Vulnerable.

  His grin set, a black slash of pure, elated fury. Now what? Huh? What happens if I make a damned hole in your reality? Does it let through monsters from another dimension? Hey, like Lugan?

  He caught the thought, and swore at himself.

  A second, savage slam sent a spiderweb of lines though the paintwork; a third made the wall judder, a river of dust trickling to the floor.

  Or maybe I’m the monster, already here?

  A fourth kick, a fifth. The paint was cracking now – broken flakes drifting to the floor like paper...

  One of them had letters on.

  Huh?

  Ecko slammed the anchors on, his heart suddenly thundering in his chest. He recoiled, his targeters recalibrating, and he crouched down among the fragmented ruins, almost cowering.

  The shelves rose, looming, round him.

  He picked the flake up.

  It was thin, cold. It crumbled even as he touched it, like some fucking forgotten relic, but his telescopics were enough. Upon it was a spider scrawl – barely a word, faint and faded.

  It said, “...ien”.

  What the...

  His momentum had been interrupted. His adrenaline was shifting, changing from confrontation and gleeful fury to a skin-crawling prickle that crept up into his shoulders and the back of his neck. Barely daring to breathe, he crouched by the damage he’d made, extended a fingertip.

  And he realised what he’d just done.

  Fuck me ragged...

  The paint – stucco? – was a collage of colour. It wasn’t mould he’d been kicking down – well not all of it – it was some sort of mural. As he backed up, looked up and around him, he realised that it was fucking huge. It covered the whole wall from one side of the dip to the other.

  His scalp crawled.

  He made a grab for nearest rocklight, sent the shadows gibbering round him. Then he crouched again and, carefully, took a corner of his cloak, brushed where he’d cracked the artwork through to the bricks.

  There, the tiny faded lettering said, “Tus...”.

  Tusien.

  He shivered. His flake fit one edge of the hole perfectly.

  What’d the Bard said?

  The high days of Tusien.

  Trembling now, he picked up other fragments, turned them over to study them, but they were dust, their wisdom lost.

  Shit...

  Angered, excited, frustrated, fighting to hold his adrenaline, he carefully, carefully, uncovered a little more, blinking at it like some fucking ageing Tech. After a moment, his oculars made out the remains of a tiny image – some sort of earthwork, stylised ruins.

  It said, “The Barrow at Tusien”.

  Holy.

  Fucking.

  Shitweasel.

 
The wall was a map.

  Shaking now, he brushed more dirt aside, and more. Getting his mitts on proper cartography had been pretty high on his list of wants – and he’d found nada. Now the whole world was laid out in front of him...

  Or would be, as soon as he’d called in the cleaners.

  He propped the rocklight on the barrel, cleared more of the dirt. Slowly, the colours and the imagery became easier to see. There was a distinct lack of scale – artists’ rendition might’ve been more to the point – but it did the job, all right.

  Chrissakes, where’s a camera when I fucking need one?

  There was Roviarath, lynchpin city. There was Amos at the mouth of some huge mofo river, and further north there was Fhaveon, the Lord City the Bard had mentioned, on some kind of rock promontory, and watching a big old island across a surprisingly narrow straight. There was all the green shit – the hills and forests and mountains and lakes and the empty acres of grass... the faded colours made it seem brownish, rotten.

  With a scrabble, he was stood on the barrel-top, holding up the rocklight to find the blip that’d tell him where the tavern was, the X he’d been waiting for. But apparently it wasn’t gonna be quite that easy.

  Great. The one thing I needed to find...

  Scowling, he dropped back into his cowled crouch, steadying himself with the tips of his fingers, and covering his skin against the light.

  He had to remember this, burn it into his forebrain somehow. If he was ever gonna to go any-sodding-where, he had to learn this stuff.

  Some fucking joke, to put a map where he couldn’t move it. What he wouldn’t give for Lugan’s monosharp pocket knife, then he could peel the damn thing off the wall.

  Yeah, no chance of that. They didn’t even have steel. Iron. Coinage. Everything that should’ve been metal...

  Metal.

  Oh. Jesus Harry Christ on a fucking motor scooter...

  ...two and two, you asshole. Usually make four.

  The rocklight shimmered faintly as if it agreed with him.

  Still crouched there, riding the barrel like Bilbo sodding Bigshot, he rummaged through his pouch for the piece of the blade he’d snapped, and held it up like a talisman. It shone the same deep orange, almost bronze, just like the goldie girl’s –