Ecko Endgame

by Danie Ware

  Now, the site was quiet, and the moons were rising. She crept silently through the remains of the Kas encampment on foot, her blades drawn. Her back ran with sweat in spite of the cold; she was prowling wary, watching for movement.

  Behind her, darkness had swallowed the dead and the dying. Her hands itched like fire, but she ignored them. She tripped, nearly fell. Through the moonlight came spasms of noise – calls to the Gods, cries elated and victorious; gasps of pain and slavers of hunger. In places, there were hummocks on the dead ground and some of them moved, reaching out hands for help.

  In a fragment of rocklight, she saw Taure, half his face missing and a last look of shock in his one remaining eye. She dropped to one knee beside him, staring at him as if he were the embodiment of the final death of the Banned.

  My old friend.

  A memory – she was in The Wanderer, playing dice. Ress and Taure had been propping up the bar, chuckling at her skills. For just a moment, it was more real than…

  But then it was gone, and Ress was gone, and The Wanderer was gone, and Taure was there in the cold muck with half his face torn off. She picked up a handful of dirt and threw it over him in a silent farewell.

  To him – to her youth – to the Banned entire.

  Then, taking a breath, she stood and walked on.

  Around her, the shapes became more creature than human. A hand clawed at her leg and she kicked something hard in the face – had no idea what it even was.

  She left sick. Her heart thundered.

  As she moved onwards, she realised she was coming to the heart of Ythalla’s camp – she could see the ruined remains of bivouacs and tents, store carts left to rot. Many of them had been damaged by the explosion of the alchemy stores, and in places, there were huddles of frightened people, all of them in their last returns, frail and aged and dying. Some of them raged at her, shaking querulous fists, most were too weak.

  The Kas had drained their own army, everything they had, to fuel the rise of the Sical.

  She shuddered – pity and horror.

  And then Triqueta saw something that made her stop.

  * * *

  The command tent was lit by rocklights, each glimmering in a standing terhnwood sconce. They bathed pools of warmth on the ceiling, threw angled shadows on the frosted walls. In their light, the tent was bare of luxuries – purely functional – and the guards had been ordered to stand outside.

  Now, the occupants of the tent were gathered in a curiosity that felt like judgement – Nivrotar, Rhan, and Ecko. Amethea was there, but huddled and staring, curled shivering beside the Lord of Amos. Roderick was alive with his new knowledge; he thrummed to a song that only he could hear, and needed – craved – its release.

  “I have waited… for so long,” he told them. He had replaced his garments, wrapping them around himself. The Bard’s gaze went from face to face, stopped as he caught Rhan’s eyes.

  “The Kas have left Rammouthe, we know this,” he continued. He looked at all of them and then opened the layers of garments so they could see his lean frame, the writing that was inking itself into him, even as he spoke. Ecko swore. The Bard stood still for a moment, his steel throat bared and flanked by Mom’s scars like its acolytes. “And in leaving, they have left their citadel open. Left the passage through it finally free.”

  “And you found…?” Rhan asked him.

  “Knowledge!” The Bard grinned, the expression pure mischief, an echo of his former self. “All through our history and mythology, there have been four compass directions. Four elements, four souls. This has been the cornerstone of our entire lore, of everything we know and understand.”

  Ecko was bouncing on his toes. “Jeez, keep us in suspenders, willya?”

  Roderick said, “There are not four elements.” Wind breathed cold through the entranceway, making him shiver. “There are six.”

  “Shit!” Rhan’s breath puffed out in a curse.

  Roderick could see him surging with the information, with so many things suddenly fitting…

  Six!

  Rhan said, “How did we not know…?” He ran out of words. His hand reached for an explanation, came back empty. “Ice and fire, light and darkness—”

  “Stone and sky,” Roderick said. “The Powerflux isn’t flat, edge to edge, horizon to horizon. It wraps us; it runs in the stone beneath our feet, in the air above our heads.” He paused, went on. “And we forgot.”

  “I saw,” Rhan said. “I saw it in the Light, in the OrSil.”

  “The Ilfe has been found, hidden deep behind the citadel of the Kas. It’s why their skins are marked, why mine is now. Even Vahl bears the ink, though I don’t think he even knows what it is. But I remember. And I saw…” His voice caught, trembled. “All those returns ago, in the Ryll, I saw the Powerflux. Its full manifestation, vast and over and under us. In all our returns… Rhan, even you have only ever touched the edge of it. Its might is beyond belief.” He was blazing, etched in symbols, his lone prophecy fulfilled at last. “With it, we can do anything.”

  “Well, whaddaya know,” Ecko grinned at him. “We’ve upgraded to 3D.”

  * * *

  Triqueta could see her quite clearly: Ythalla. The thug-in-charge. The commander of Fhaveon’s cavalry.

  She was defeated and on foot, though still armed, armoured and Kas-possessed. Her metal-grey hair gleamed; the ashes of the Sical had settled over her like a shroud. Blade in her hand, she faced a small, angry man in armour slightly too big for him.

  Mostak.

  Ythalla was sneering, her chin lifted, her teeth bared. “So here we are again, Commander.”

  Mostak snorted, scathing as a slap. “You’ve lost, Ythalla. Lost everything, including your soul. I’ve got nothing to prove to you.”

  The woman lunged at him, point of the blade under his chin. “You damned bastard. I’m going to carve you ’til you can’t stop screaming.”

  He didn’t bother moving, only chuckled at her. “Kill me if you like, it won’t make any difference. This is over. All those lives drained for nothing. All your bullying and scheming, and look where you’ve ended up.”

  “You’ll all die one way or the other,” Ythalla said. “You’ve won, but what? You can’t go back to Fhaveon – we slaughtered the last of her people. The cities of the Varchinde are charnels of disease and starvation. There’s no food, no fuel. No terhnwood. Your world’s ended.”

  “Then why?” Mostak said. The last of the sunlight made his armour gleam. “If this world is dead, why fight so hard for it?”

  The question made Ythalla laugh, a savage spit of humour. She slung the blade over her shoulder in a deliberately jaunty gesture. “You think we care?”

  The commander inhaled a breath, refusing to be baited.

  Irritated by the woman’s posturing, Triqueta slung her blades and unhooked her bow from her shoulder.

  As swift as thought, she strung a shaft, sighted, let fly.

  Ythalla never saw it coming.

  It took the older woman clean in the throat and dropped her like a felled tree. She gouted blood, kicked for a moment, and was still.

  Bitch.

  Triq blew on her fingertips, the gesture of a perfect shot – though there was no one to see.

  But then, as she slung her bow back on her shoulder, and Mostak turned to see where the arrow had come from, Triqueta realised that she’d made a mistake.

  A damned great big mistake.

  Oh, shit.

  As the commander turned, she saw the blood-light bathe him, saw the slow wash of greed and power as it rose in his face.

  And the blood curdled in her body.

  Backing up, she glanced about her, but there was no refuge or help. She wondered what the rhez she’d been thinking, realised she’d been tired or showing off or both, realised that it didn’t damned well matter now.

  The Kas that had been inside Ythalla was now trying to take the Tan Commander.

  But Mostak – she had to look twice to see it
– was fighting back.

  When she understood the man’s sheer strength, what he was trying to do, Triq froze to the spot. Fascinated and horrified, she watched his face as he ground his teeth. Unbelieving – could he do this, could anyone? – Triqueta saw the commander struggle, quite literally, for possession of his soul.

  She wanted to help him, felt responsible, wanted to tear the thing out by the roots… but what the rhez could she do?

  Then, from somewhere in the chaos and failing light, she heard her name.

  “Tan Commander Triqueta! I saw her! She came this way!”

  She realised there were survivors and they needed her.

  Without Mostak, the army was hers to command.

  She needed a drummer, dammit, she needed a flag…

  She needed not to panic.

  Now, Mostak was on his knees, his hands clenched at his temples. In the rocklight, his forehead glistened with sweat. He made an effort, lurched to his feet and staggered forward several paces. She went towards him, one blade ready.

  But his hand was on his long sword – Valiembor white metal – and then it was a glitter in the moonlight, and he was Kas and coming for her, laughing like Ythalla had done only moments before.

  No! Damn you, fight!

  She didn’t know if she meant Mostak or herself.

  Triq stood still, her stance defensive. She didn’t want to fight him, but if he turned into Kas Gash Something-or-other, then she was going to kick his backside, Commander or no.

  Mostak stopped, shaking, his face contorting. He was trying to speak, but shudders racked his body.

  In the thin light, figures were starting to come into view, shattered and bloodied, but survivors.

  Victors.

  Mostak didn’t look at them.

  One of them ran to him – a member of his own command tan. He shouted relief at the sight of his friend, his Commander. But Mostak’s face changed again and he snapped round, fast as a whip. He slashed the man’s throat and left him kicking on the blood-soaked soil.

  Shit.

  “Now,” he said, turning back to Triqueta. “You, you’ve been a spike in our sides for quite long enough.”

  “You come and get me, Vahl,” Triqueta told him. “I’ve faced you before and you know I’m not afraid of you.”

  But the commander, the Kas in him, laughed aloud, harsh with amusement.

  “I’m not Vahl, you stupid mare. Vahl’s gone, Tamh with him. This – all of this – has just been to keep you busy.”

  Busy.

  It was like a fist in the face.

  Busy.

  Why fight so hard for it?

  This – all of this – had been a distraction. They’d been played. Just like in Aeona, Vahl was games within games, wheels within wheels…

  Busy.

  She’d wondered why he’d split his forces into three waves of attack, why he’d thrashed his own force to death to cross the plains.

  She’d even wondered what he wanted…

  Busy.

  She said it aloud, her voice hushed, “By the rhez.” Then her mind was scrabbling to catch itself up, work it all out. “Then where… where did he go? Dammit, what does he want?”

  But Mostak laughed at her, the Kas in him laughed.

  Furious, Triqueta surged forwards, placed her blade across Mostak’s throat. He made no attempt to defend himself. She snarled in his face, at the Kas in his soul.

  “You fucking bastard. I don’t know what you are, but you’re going to tell me where Vahl’s gone, and what he—”

  In response, he did the very last thing she’d been expecting.

  Rather than fight back, score points or sneer, he simply pushed forwards, his eyes on hers, slowly and grimly cutting his own throat.

  Thick red leaked down his chest.

  Horrified, she saw the Kas command and then leave him, saw the humanity return to him as her blade was deep in flesh and windpipe. She tore it free without thinking, heard the hiss of air, heard him burble, felt the explosion of warmth that covered her face and hands – but it was too late.

  Fearful it would try for her, she fell to her knees, instinctually, stupidly, trying to stop the bleeding. But the thing had gone, and Tan Commander Mostak Valiembor said his final words to her alone.

  And then he died.

  25: POWERFLUX

  TUSIEN

  “We have so much power,” Roderick said. “More than we can wield – if only we knew how.” The rocklit walls of the command lit his inked skin like some ancient saga shaman, etched in alchemy. He was trembling, fighting to keep focus, to not just let it all loose in a shriek of pure joy.

  “And we still face a foe,” he said. “Not Vahl…” he caught Rhan’s gaze and he grinned, “…something more, something darker and deeper. Something that the world has always feared and that we need to defeat.” He closed his shirts and jacket around himself, became again a long, lean figure in his otherworldly black.

  Ecko snickered. “Remembered that bit yet?”

  The question jabbed at him, sharp like a blade. It was the thing he still couldn’t see, couldn’t quite make out. He was pacing now, agitated, searching for that opening, that final breakthrough. He was thinking aloud, words tumbling over themselves.

  “We will need the Powerflux, all of it, all six elements. We will need all of our knowledge and strength—”

  “We’ll need to know where it is?” Ecko said.

  The Bard spun and glowered at him. “If you’re so fucking smart, you tell me.”

  “Let me Google it for ya.”

  “Stop it,” Rhan said. “If we can’t peel answers out of your skin, let’s do this another way. Two new elements – must have souls, yes? Anchors and focal points. So where are they?”

  Roderick let his breath out in astonishment. “A Soul of Stone—!”

  “An’ an air-soul,” Ecko added. “Sorry.”

  Without looking, Rhan cuffed him round the back of the head.

  “Ow.”

  But the Bard was thinking fast now, his energy surging.

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Connections and vision, recollections, information tumbling over itself. His skin sang, his throat was warm. “And the Soul of Stone would be the foundation for the Powerflux. It would be the centre, the crux, feasibly the single most powerful element of all. It must be beneath our feet somewhere.” He stopped dead, tapping his fingers on his thigh in a sharp but silent tattoo. “It—”

  “Would be the heart of the world herself?” Nivrotar commented softly.

  The Lord of Amos had not spoken a word throughout the entire conversation. She stood silent, her face in the shadows of the rocklights. With a slight shock, Roderick realised that the sun had set without him noticing, and that the wind in the tent blew ice-cold.

  He suddenly shivered, bundling his garments tighter.

  Rhan whistled though his teeth. “And its potential—”

  “Would be terrifying.” The Bard rapped his fingers harder, an unconscious and complex rhythm. “If we knew where it was, then could we—?”

  “For chrissakes.” Ecko’s tone was somewhere between amusement and disgust. “Bottom of the fuckin’ class, both of ya. There’s only one place it can be – we know where it is.”

  “It’s the Monument.” The words were Amethea’s.

  By the Gods!

  Then Roderick’s fingers stopped dead.

  The Monument.

  Of course it was. Of course it was! He wanted to smack a hand into his forehead, curse aloud. The Soul of Stone could be nowhere else – and he’d known it, known it all along, known it from his earliest research, from the sagas of the Flux itself. The Monument marked the centre of the Varchinde, the site of the lost Elemental College…

  The college that Maugrim had blown into a smoking hole, its cracks even now spreading across the world…

  Time the Flux begins to crack.

  Oh…

  …shit.

  The rush of adrenaline made
him hot and cold and sick. He opened the shirt again, searched his skin for answers, frenzied.

  Come on come on come on…

  Ress – what did you see? What did you see?

  What are you trying to tell me?

  “Aww.” Ecko had turned on Amethea, sounding crestfallen. “How’d you—?”

  “I remember,” she said, slowly. Her eyes were unfocused, as if she fought some internal battle that none of them could touch. “When I was held by Maugrim, I touched it. I touched the stone of my room, and the wall was warm. It was vast and mighty, and I was tiny and lost, but it knew I was there. It knew me.” She blinked, looked around at them. “And later, it grew into my skin, through my feet.” Her face coloured, but she went on, “It became a part of me—”

  “You’re an Elementalist, Amethea,” Rhan said, only half-jesting.

  But she paid him no attention, was still speaking. “How else did Maugrim wield that much power? It must’ve been what he found, how he was able to make the stone guardians of the Cathedral move—”

  “Bullshit,” Ecko said. “Maugrim threw fire. Like the Sical. We know that, we saw it.”

  Rhan interrupted him, “Maugrim wielded fire?”

  “Flame-beastie?” Ecko said. “Pocket version of the big fucker outside?”

  “And stone?”

  “So what?”

  “You can’t wield two elements at once,” Rhan said.

  “Or?”

  “Kablooey.” Rhan’s shrug implied destruction beyond his ability to describe.

  Kablooey.

  Roderick whispered softly, “‘Time the Flux begins to crack.’ I think,” he added, his voice soft with wonder, “that understanding lights our way at last.”

  * * *

  Triqueta stood wordless, the body of the Tan Commander at her feet. She could hear voices in the darkness, close now – shouts triumphant and calls for friends. They were coming – and as soon as they saw her, she’d be reliving her Aeonic nightmare, boots and spitting, her stones pried from her face…

  I didn’t… She couldn’t find the words to say them aloud. Gods, I didn’t…