Ecko Endgame

by Danie Ware

  “No! No…!”

  She wasn’t close enough.

  He staggered back and fell onto his rump in the bare dirt.

  She was bawling, now. “No! Why did you do that? You didn’t need to come after me!”

  But the spearmen were closer than she was.

  From the top of the slope, the searing white flash came again – the Amos forces were fighting to reach them, crushing the Ythalla’s army between themselves and the Banned.

  But it was too late.

  “Redlock! Redlock!”

  Dust and dirt and cold blinded her. Suddenly there were horses everywhere as the rallying cavalry finally turned.

  They were overwhelmed, surrounded.

  Struggling through, slashing right and left almost blindly, she caught a glimpse of him – even arse-down, his axes were still savage. Anything that came close died screaming. His red mane was bloody and stuck to his skin; his teeth were streaked with gore. He was bellowing, wordless with rage and pain.

  Maybe, if she got there in time, maybe, if the Amos force reached them…

  But it was too late. The spearmen were all round him now. There were horses kicking and the damned vialer, and he couldn’t stop them all. Even as the Amos force crashed through, she saw the spears come down hard, stabbing over and over, saw Redlock as he crashed sideways, fighting furiously to the very last of his strength.

  She saw the wounds torn in his body.

  Saw the vialer cut his throat, shouting with triumph and brandishing its blade at the sky.

  Saw the blood as if it was the only colour in the winter cold.

  It soaked her vision red, and she remembered nothing more.

  * * *

  When her head cleared, she was being held down.

  She was on her back, cold and drained, with a faceful of sleety drizzle. Her arms and legs were pinned by crossed spears, each driven point-first into the frozen dirt.

  She swore, struggled to rise, but a voice said, “Easy, Tan Commander. It’s all right, it’s over. For now.”

  The ground was cold. Cursing, she craned her head, trying to work out what the rhez had just happened.

  She’d bitten her lip, and her mouth tasted like blood and metal. She turned her neck and spat.

  “What…?” she began.

  A heavy military boot came down in her field of vision. The voice said, “You’re a hero, Triqueta of the Banned. You’ve won us the day.”

  “Then let me up, for Gods’ sakes. My arse is like ice.”

  At a gesture, the spears were withdrawn. She sat up, shivering, looking for her blades.

  But her gaze stopped on the slumped figure of the red centaur.

  Oh Gods.

  He lay still, a cold lump in the failing light. The air was bitter; her breath clouded away from her as if she could exhale her own life and just lay down beside him. Give up all of this madness, once and for all.

  “You stupid motherfucker,” she whispered. The word was one of Ecko’s, but it seemed to fit.

  She tried to stand, failed, crawled on cold, wet knees over to where he lay. When she reached him, she stopped, unable to speak. She made herself look into his face, put her hand on his shoulder, almost as if she could shake him awake.

  Redlock?

  His axes were still in his hands, his knuckles still white, his eyes still open. He stared out across the freezing hillside, out past ruin and wreckage.

  In his face, she saw Feren.

  She saw Baythunder.

  She saw a Banned party, firelight and ale and boisterous humour, a square of spears laid out in the summer grass. Within them, Taure wrestled a bare-chested mercenary champion, a red-haired man she’d never seen before – they held a fifth spear between them, each fighting to pull the other one over. She remembered clearly how the merc had downed every challenger, to much coarse wit from the watching lines. He was damned good, whoever he was, and when Taure, too, had bitten the dirt, she’d stepped out herself. She’d been half the man’s age and less than two-thirds his weight, but she’d picked up the spear and challenged him.

  He’d eyed her curiously, but hadn’t insulted her by refusing. Syke had counted down, and the Banned had called her name, stamping in time, “Tri-quet-ah!” She’d waited until the mark to start, then had stepped towards him and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

  But he’d been sharper than she’d realised – hadn’t been shocked enough to lose his grip on the spear, or to let her trip him backwards. Instead, he’d willingly dropped the thing and just kissed her straight back, passionate and unashamed. The fight had disintegrated into shouts and cheers, fragments of thrown food. He’d broken away from her, grinning at trickery and kiss both.

  “What do I win?” she’d asked him, the spear still in one hand.

  His grin had broadened into pure, whetted mischief. “Anything you want.”

  But summer and firelight were long gone, and he lay dead on the cold ground, the sleet settling over his skin. Shivering, she tried to retrieve his axes, but his fingers were locked solid – she couldn’t prise them free. After a moment’s struggle, she found herself yanking in a rush of temper, her body shuddering with something between fury and grief. It was huge and impossible, something that clamoured for this not to have happened, for him to wake up, to turn over, to be back in the warmth of that fire…

  Those last shouts – I don’t need you! Dammit! – rang like bells, like a haunting figment that would never leave her be.

  And then she was shaking, raw and hurting, furious at him, at herself.

  In a gesture that was pure instinct, she took her belt-blade, dug the point under one of the stones in her cheeks. Blood oozed down her face. She tried to prise the thing out, just like in the dream—

  A warrior’s scarred gauntlet reached down, closed firmly on her wrist.

  The same man’s voice said, “He died fighting.”

  She swore, let the blade fall free. She felt sick, felt like she ought to be crying, but there were no tears. Instead, she wrenched herself upright, her legs as weak as a newborn foal’s.

  The man said, “You broke one set of teeth and two arms before we managed to put you down.” He chuckled, though the sound was bleak. “No one’s seen the Red Rage in my lifetime – longer. They sent for me in person.”

  The comment made her look round, tear her eyes from the centaur’s body.

  The voice belonged to a small, tightly muscled man, his shoulders strong and his energy palpable. His lamellar armour was odd, somehow archaic, and slightly too big for him. He looked like he’d borrowed it for a pageant.

  But his face was lean, stern, the line of his nose almost Archipelagan. He punched a fist against his chest, a formal gesture she didn’t return.

  She glared at him. “And who the rhez are you when you’re at home?”

  “I’m Mostak Valiembor,” he said. “Tan Commander.” It was delivered without boast or inflection. “Your friend, the apothecary, is on her way down. The Lord Nivrotar also wishes to speak to you. For now, we’ve established a perimeter and secured the area.” His eyes were sharp as claws, his energy palpable. “A truce has been flagged, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t hold my breath.”

  Triqueta snorted. “Bloody right.” For the first time, she turned to look out at her surroundings.

  “Dear Gods.” The words fell away from her and rolled down the hill like stones.

  The slope was a tangle of bodies and weapons and fallen flags, decorated by the black flappings of the hungry aperios. Pain was everywhere, audible, harrowing; in places, hands still clawed for help.

  Down among the fallen, there were horses, bloated and injured and broken. One of them struggled to stand on a shattered foreleg, failed. Here, there was a centaur, her hide stained with blood. Beside her was the cavalryman she’d torn down, his chest raked open with huge claws; his organs had swollen and blood soaked his colours.

  Among the dead and the dying walked several tan of Amos warriors, in pairs an
d bearing short blades. The slitting of throats and the salvage of kit were brief and efficient. Every so often, they would stop to help someone, and then point them or carry them to the ruin at the hilltop, to the fires that burned against the walls.

  “Dear Gods,” Triqueta repeated softly.

  “We won,” Mostak said. “Today.”

  And then there was a cry of her name and a flurry of cloaked figure stumbling down the hillside. The hood blew back, and the hair was blonde and the face grubby, familiar, a mote of hope in the rising darkness. And Triqueta and Amethea were wrapped in a friends’ embrace beyond fear, beyond life and beyond warfare. Suddenly, Triqueta was crying after all and she didn’t care. She sobbed like a child, her body wracked to spasm with the force of it.

  “Thea. He… he…” She was sobbing too hard, couldn’t speak.

  “I know, they told me.” Amethea was crying too, her voice was catching. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

  “I know.” It was facile, but there were no words adequate, and they both knew it.

  The two women pulled apart, stared at each other, streaks through the dirt on both their faces. Amethea gripped her friend’s shoulders with hands that were strong and still as stone.

  She took a breath, said, “He couldn’t have lived like that, you know that. He wanted… he chose…”

  “I know,” she said, again. “But I can’t help it. I told him… the last words I said to him…”

  “Do you remember?” Amethea’s words were calm, firm. “Maugrim’s chain, Redlock’s cough? He was in my care, do you remember?”

  “If you’re going to tell me he would’ve died anyway—”

  “Not died, Triq.” Amethea’s gaze was sure. “Got old. And soon. Been unable to fight, to breathe. Even without what Amal did to him, blood clots in the lungs don’t just go away. He died in a battle, weapons in his hands.”

  “I know,” Triq said.

  Then something else occurred to her. “He… had a wife.” Triqueta looked round her, as if the woman would manifest out of the cold. “A daughter – she’d be grown now. They—”

  “If we get out of this,” Amethea said, “we’ll find them. Take them his axes, or something.”

  “We should move.” Mostak’s voice was chill, wary. “I’ve no wish to stay in the open. Gather what you can, and we’ll return to the hilltop. And you, Master Apothecary, you’re needed.”

  “Yes, Commander.” Amethea nodded, her face bleak. As they turned to look up the hill, she said, “Nothing, in my whole life, could’ve prepared me for this. They came after us at Fhaveon, down into the tunnels. And I ran here. The only survivor, as far as I know. I crossed the plains alone. And now, I try…” She looked at her hands as if they were strangers, swallowed hard. “I try and save as many as I can.”

  Triqueta took her friend’s hand in her own.

  As they went back up the hill, she didn’t let go.

  PART 3: FRACTAL REALISATION

  21: THE ILFE

  RAMMOUTHE ISLAND

  Jayr the Infamous stirred, cold.

  Her body was heavy, weak as water. She could barely raise her head. Her arms and legs felt like dead stone. She struggled to focus, but had no sense of how much time had passed.

  What the rhez happened to me?

  She opened her eyes to darkness as deep as the tunnels of the Kartiah. She couldn’t see herself, let alone look to check on Ress. She listened for a moment, then made herself move, careful and silent.

  The floor beneath her was smooth stone. There was stone to either side of her, and there was a faint breeze on her face, indicating a very large space somewhere ahead.

  She’d no idea why she was still alive.

  She remembered, pieces with jagged edges. Rammouthe Island. The tsaka with their mad, curved horns. Landslide and falling. The creatures who had said: Our time comes at last… Samiel can no longer hold us. No more exile, no more starvation. We will be free.

  As she came more awake, she wondered why they’d not restrained her.

  Maybe they’d just not cared.

  Jayr had no memory of her life before the Kartiah, no understanding of why, as a small child, she’d been traded away. The dark was all she’d known, and she could navigate it, by the damned Gods, like a Grassdweller could walk down a trade-road.

  She touched a hand to the wall. The stone was distinctive, not the hard edges of the Kartiah, nor the softer, sandier stone of the plains. It was flawlessly smooth, but had no feel of being worked. And there was potency to it, a luxurious, moving chill that she had no way to name.

  It felt like it was breathing.

  Shuddering, she ranged further forward.

  She found Ress, his faint warmth slumped by one wall. He was conscious, his breathing shallow and too fast. As she bent over him, he latched a hand into the front of her vest and pulled her down so he could whisper in her ear, “No time. No time.”

  “Never mind that now.” She put her hands under his arms, lifted and steadied him. He felt light, shrivelled. When she went to let him go, he staggered and coughed, then he lurched to one side and almost pulled them both over. She caught him, and he felt like a bundle of sticks.

  She thought of Penya, of dust and ashes.

  And that was when Jayr realised…

  They were going to die here. The Kas hadn’t bothered to kill or restrain them, because they were caught – they’d been left alive in mockery, blundering blind like lost and squeaking esphen. Even if they found their destination, even if they were able to return above ground, they would never go home. They would never leave this place; never see Syke or Triqueta or their Banned family again.

  Suddenly, the darkness felt very hard, and very real.

  Jayr clenched her fists. In that moment, she understood this wasn’t a game any more, a jest, an insubordination. They were going to die here, sooner or later. And there would be no long ditch, no Banned fire, no songs to celebrate their lives…

  She would never see the light again.

  Ress said, almost as if he’d heard her, “We… must walk.”

  And she answered him, “I know.”

  * * *

  Slowly, painfully slowly, they wound through a vast and sprawling maze, a mighty ruin of the breathing stone. The air was always in their faces, and it smelled like something waiting.

  But Jayr knew the darkness, and Ress’s focus never failed. After a time, the walls faded away. Jayr’s senses tingled to a rising whisper of power.

  Not the Kas.

  Something else.

  Something bigger.

  As they crept forwards, the air began to grow cold, a shiver that was tangible on her skin, a thrum like a slow pulse. She paused, held a hand for Ress to stop.

  “Something’s here,” she said, her voice low. Ress twitched and muttered. “Something… I don’t know. There’s something in the air. It’s like it’s watching us, like…” She was no damned poet – whatever it was, she had no words to describe it.

  After several breaths, Ress said, “Must… walk.”

  “I know that.” The tickle made Jayr want to sneeze. It was like a heartbeat, or the rhythm of a song.

  “The Gods. Made Rammouthe. From their flesh,” Ress said, his voice breathy, barely a whisper. Jayr had to strain to hear him.

  She shivered, said, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He fidgeted. “This is the Ilfead-Syr. The Well of the World’s Memory. It was made first, made from Godsflesh. Made for the children. It’s a toy.” He started to laugh, then gagged and fell silent.

  Jayr’s senses were being overcome by the soft rhythm. It was lulling, deceptively sweet.

  Godsflesh. Made for the children. A toy.

  This time, she said, “We must walk.”

  “But they forgot about it,” he told her. “There’s nothing down here.”

  A chill raised the flesh across Jayr’s shoulders.

  Nothing down here.

  “Ress…”

  He gra
bbed her, his hand like a claw. The grip was tight, almost painful. He was panting now, as if he was struggling for focus, or to remember something.

  “The Library,” he said. He shook her to make sure she was paying attention. “‘Time when Substance of the Gods.’ Do you remember the Library? The words grew. The words I read. They grew in my head. Like a plant, like an infection. They brought us here. So we can remember.”

  She remembered. Remembered the light draining out of Ress’s eyes, remembered Nivrotar telling them to leave the books alone…

  They grew in my head.

  “Ress,” she said. “You’re scaring me.”

  He let her go. For a moment, she thought he’d folded, doubled over with age or pain, but as she turned to him, he spoke again.

  “We’re close,” he said. “The stone here… it warps under the weight of the memories. The walls move, writhe. Or we do. Like the Ryll, like the Bard touching the water… the Ilfe is too much for mortal man to bear. It means everything’s twisting.”

  Twisting.

  “Ress…” Her tone was a warning.

  His hand touched her skin, traced the line of one of her scars. “Trust me. I know. Can feel. We’re almost there.”

  Two isolated fragments of human vulnerability lost in Rammouthe’s seething soul.

  They kept walking.

  They went onwards through a vast passing of the Count of Time. They moved in silence. Several times Jayr was convinced they’d retraced their steps, or turned back on themselves – but something drew Ress like a lure. He shambled onwards, a man obsessed.

  He grew weary, and fell often. She caught his elbow – painfully thin – and helped him. He leaned more and more on her strength.

  Eventually, he stopped.

  “Jayr,” he said. “We’ve come… we’re here.”