Ecko Endgame (6 page)

“No.”

The fourth time. It was a statement, the Bard’s voice still soft but gathering strength. He looked for a moment like he was going to pick the girl up, hold her to him and howl, but she was wasted and tiny, too fragile. Instead, he sat back on his heels – on his black London Converse – and looked at his shaking hands, touched them to his own face, the scarf across his jaw, as if to reassure himself it was still there.

Okay. Here we go…

But there was no roof-reaving bawl of doom. Instead, the Bard stayed like that for a moment – like he was some fucking bomb about to take out the building and all of them with it – and then he came to his feet in a single, marionette motion.

His back was straight, his face now uncovered, revealing the seething, sensual, mechanical mess of his throat, and the blacklight veins that ran up and into his ears like maggots.

For just a moment, the entire room watched him as if he would bring death to them all.

“So.” His voice was a low rumble like a distant train. The hall thrummed with tension and acoustic. “This is our message, is it?”

What?

“That’s
it
?” Ecko’s words were out before he could stop them – their harsh rasp was a slap. All heads snapped to look at him. Uncomfortable under that many eyes, he sprang up the side of the steps and curled his lip, exposed black teeth. Grief manifested as anger, and he threw it back. His skin shifted with the shadows of the great hall. “Chrissakes, what the hell happened to you? Karine was like, I dunno, your fucking kid, your daughter. Jeez, thought
I
was fucked up—”

“Quiet.” Roderick’s look should have flayed skin from bone. He looked back down at the pitifully aged woman. “The time for riddles is past. Tell me, where did this come from?”

“
She
, where did
she
come from.” Ecko’s adrenaline was still singing along his nerves. He found himself halfway over the seat itself, staring down at the Bard, incredulous. “Chrissakes, I’m the sane one now? What the hell did Mom do to you?”

While you were screaming.

Down there in the dark.

Heat pulsed through the Bard’s throat like tension. He didn’t answer.

But Ecko had found his voice now, his release. The words were a torrent of force, catharsis and fury, and he couldn’t hold them back. He crouched in the Lord’s seat, an old embroidered cushion under his shoes, and aimed himself at the Bard’s black hood.

“What the hell’s goin’ on here, anyhow? You come back from Mom’s lair and – bam! – you’re the supernasty? You got the black hat? You’re the one with all the
tech
, now?” The word was an accusation – he was being childish and he knew it, but he didn’t fucking
care.
“One day-trip ticket to the London Underground, two rounds with Mom’s operating table, and hey whaddaya know, you’re a new man!”

The strike was casual, a backhand slap. But it was so quick that, even adrenalised as he was, even with his targetters tracking, the Bard’s fingers caught him. The impact didn’t hurt, but the sound rang, inside and out, smarting. And the fact that it’d made contact at all…

Ecko spat outrage. “You fucking
dare—
!”

“I said, quiet.”

“Fuck
you
.”

“
Enough!
” Nivrotar’s voice rang from the dark vaults of the roof. Like children they subsided, glaring.

Cold as winter wind, she said, “There is no combat in my presence without my word. I see grief, I see envy – I understand. But these things will not be aired in here.” She added no threat, no warning of punishment or consequence – she had no need to. Instead she came to stand by Karine, the light making hollows of her perfect white cheeks. She turned to look back up at them. “We must understand this. Control yourselves, all of you, and tell me how this… atrocity… came to occur in my city.”

“Outta my ass.” Ecko’s snipe was not aimed at anyone in particular.

“This is no jest.” The Lord’s voice was calm; she looked from one face to another. “Only the Kas – or those crafted from them – drain time.” She cocked an eyebrow at Roderick. “Vahl may be gone, but the Varchinde is in pieces, the cities in turmoil. Blight eats our crops and we know not its source. Fhaveon lies gutless and ruined, the Council is broken. And if there are creatures of this ability within my city walls, should I just part my thighs and let them ravage me?” The sentence was delivered without a flicker of humour or vulnerability. “How comes this discovery? If Vahl lives again, if his craftings walk the streets of Amos, then I
will
know.”

Amethea shook her head, her denial deeper than just disbelief. She was grey-pale, like ash, her body temperature too low; sheer bloody-mindedness was keeping her on her feet.

She said, “Karine was with me yesterday, yesterday morning. She went to secure supplies, herbs, food – she was helping. No one haggles like Karine.” Her smile was brief, sad. “Couple of guards brought her back. I tried…” her voice cracked and she looked up at the Lord of Amos, blinking “…I tried to understand, I really tried. But how – where – no one knew. The bazaar was heaving, no one saw a thing.”

“No one ever does.” Triqueta’s comment was bleak.

“Vahl’s
gone
,” Amethea rounded on her friend, plaintive, angry, defiant. “Rhan won, Fhaveon’s free – the bretir came with the message. You told us!” She looked back at the city’s Lord, gave a short laugh like the edge of hysteria. “That bit’s supposed to be
over—
”

Ecko snorted, loud and confrontational, echoing in the empty hall. When they all stared at him, eyes upon eyes, he bared his teeth.

“Yeah an’ the bad guys never come back after you kill ’em.” He grinned, malicious. “Answer me this – this Kiss, Kas, this Vahl must-be-a-bad-guy-’cause-his-name’s-got-a-‘z’-in-it – what’s he want?”

“Fhaveon,” Nivrotar said. “To defeat his brother and cast down the city of Saluvarith—”

“Fuck legend.” Ecko was agitated. He was onto something and he wasn’t sure what – it was like throwing a hot piece of metal from hand to hand. “When he got the city, what was he gonna do with it? Open schools? Build social housing projects, what? Hold an open-house party for all his daemon buddies?” His own jibe brought him up short – something had just occurred to him. “Like
Tarvi
?”

Triqueta flinched, said nothing.

Nivrotar watched Ecko. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” The new thought was gathering pace; as he spoke, he understood what it was that he was trying to say. “Shit! Like – how many of these fuckers are there? Were there? Really? You talk about Vahl and the Kas, and we’ve seen – what – two? One big an’ one little? Where are the
rest
of them? The army of Kiss Vahl Thingies, the army of Tarvis just waitin’ to
snog
everything to death. I
mean—
”

“You mean, where are his friends?” Amethea’s voice was soft as the smothering pillow.

“Something else you’ve
forgotten
?” Ecko’s voice was jagged, and it tore.

Nivrotar rocked backwards, said nothing. She turned to look at the Bard, and they exchanged a long glance laden with fuck alone knew what. For a moment, their mutual Tundran resemblance was strong.

And the Lord of Amos looked old, older by far than Roderick, older even than the carved beastie behind her throne…

She looked
exhausted.

Then Ecko blinked, and the look was gone – she was pale and perfect, elegant as ever.

“There was always suspicion,” Roderick said, his voice like the plainland’s empty wind. “All my life, Ecko, scrabbling for pieces. Fragments of forgotten lore. I went looking for the Kas upon Rammouthe, long ago – and I found no trace of them, or of their fabled citadel. And now Karine finds a truth I could never… never have dreamed…” At the word, his own voice cracked, failed. He leaned on the side of the seat, caught one huge, shaking gulp of breath, then another. His knees went, and he seemed to curl in on himself, to shrink away from the memory, from the body on the floor, from thoughts laden with pain and loss and fear. Ecko watched him, adrenaline tinged with a tangle of scorn and pity. Then Nivrotar said something in words unfamiliar, a language that sounded like the cracking of ice, ancient and cold.

Steadying, the Bard inhaled again, lifted his chin. His shoulders straightened. When he spoke, it was as distant as the white moon.

“Karine tells us that, whatever my reconnaissance told me, there are more Kas than just Vahl Zaxaar. And they walk here among us, in whatever strength and form. They may lack their commander, Ecko, but I fear you’re right: there is
purpose.
”

The word sent a chill through the room.

“Which is
what
?” Ecko said.

“Sadly, that I can’t answer.” As he spoke, his amethyst eyes seemed to flicker with a hint of his old humour. “Ah, Ecko. You wanted your epic victory, your Final War – perhaps the Gods will yet grant you that desire.”

“Perchance Vahl wanted Fhaveon as a bridgehead,” Nivrotar said sharply. Her finger tapped her cheek. “And if so, it would mean the Kas are indeed still upon Rammouthe, and that they will come – or have come – over the water. Perhaps they stalk already the streets of the Lord city.” She looked at them, one face after another. “This foreknowledge may be enough for us to face them.”

May be enough
. The words sent a chill down Ecko’s spine.

“But – what about the blight?” Amethea said. “We need to be finding a cure.”

“We must comprehend before we can cure,” Nivrotar said. “But our lore is lacking and as yet, we know nothing.”

“And that’s a longer problem,” Triqueta said. “Look at the damage one daemon caused – if Vahl’s family are playing range patrol, then we need to know. And now. We need to know where they are, and where they’re going.” She looked back at the Lord of the city. “We should scout…”

“There may be a better way.” Nivrotar stood looking at the shrivelled Karine. “A way to bring them from hiding, to bring them to us and all unready. To draw them to a place and a time of our choosing and to assess and defeat them. It is a gamble, but a fierce one. And we should show no doubt or fear.” She looked up, held Triqueta’s eyes for a long, considered moment. “Roviarath holds to her freedom, does she not?”

“Yes, my Lord.” Triqueta smiled, a flicker of sunshine. “As far as I know.”

Nivrotar nodded. “Larred Jade is a strong Warden and a good man. You will bear him a message. Are you stalwart enough to ride the winter roads alone?”

“Ride…?” Triqueta blinked, realised the Lord was serious. She snorted.

“Good.” The Lord glanced sideways at the Bard, but his gaze was cold and he didn’t return the look. She said, “Ecko, Triqueta, Amethea, you have earned the gratitude of Amos, and of the world entire. In destroying Maugrim, you saved Roviarath and thus we stand not alone. In destroying Aeona, you halted the crafting of Amal’s creations, and forced Vahl into the open. If and when we come to confrontation, these are victories that will count in our favour. Trust in yourselves – you have might unrealised, and wisdom unseen.”

“Let’s damned well hope so.” Triqueta scratched at her flaking hands. “Or we’re all in the rhez together.”

With a flicker of a smile, Nivrotar came to stand by the broken Karine, the corpse’s dry, open eyes staring empty at the black vaults of the Varchinde’s oldest building.

“Once before, we discussed Amos finding the fighting freemen and women of the Varchinde, and this I have done.” Her eyes flashed. “I have a strong force here, enough to leave the city secure and to muster for a march.”

“A march?” Ecko said. “Can you say ‘overreaction’? Christ, we dunno what or where the Kas – Kiss – even are—”

“No.” The Lord met Ecko’s gaze. “But I know the one thing they cannot resist, the lure that will bring them to our gaze and our weapons both. And by that thing, so they can be led, like a furious child with a favourite toy.” Her smile was amused, pure and cold. The Bard was staring at her now, his eyes burning with question. “We have much knowledge – gleaned from The Wanderer, from the Library, from your own struggles and triumphs, from the Bard’s long returns of seeking, and from my rulership of this city. And I trust it will be enough.”

She turned her hand like a street conjurer, and released a single white feather that drifted gently to the stone floor.

“We have one chance to do this, and if we fail, the Kas will take us all.”

* * *

The Kas will take us all.

Triqueta stood alone, fighting a fear that seemed to wield many blades.

Outside the Lord’s audience hall, the archway was cold; the winter wind came through it hard from the empty terrace. Rain stung like flung stones.

Nivrotar had outlined an impossible plan, an insanity, a wager bigger than anything Triq had ever taken, ever dreamed of. It was crazed beyond words, hung on one single and critical assumption – but she had met Vahl Zaxaar and it made immediate sense. It thrilled her to the core of her soul.

Her message to Larred Jade in Roviarath, that was the easy part. The others—

Behind her, Ecko’s voice said, “This is fuckin’ bullshit.”

Triqueta hugged herself against the chill, tried to work her chapped hands into her sleeves and failed. She’d left her cloak inside, and she was cold; her hair was everywhere, scratching at her face. Without turning, she said, “We don’t have a choice – the Kas are coming and that’s all there is to it. Face it, it’s not the most stupid thing we’ve done.”

“It’s fuckin’
insane.
” Ecko paused, as if looking for the words for something, then ventured, “So, now we go to Fhaveon and we tell this ‘Rhan’ motherfucker he has to down tools and leg it across the plains with a host of daemons right up his ass. An’ you – you get to go
home.
”

“To Roviarath, to where the centaurs run.” She glanced slyly sideways, and her smile was humourless. “That’s not why I’m going—”

“You’re still lookin’ for him—”

“I
want
to go home, Ecko!” She dropped her chin, rounded on him. “I miss my family – should never’ve left in the first place. You led us on some Gods-damned dance—”