Ecko Rising (14 page)

“What the fuck did that?”

The scar was old, long healed – but its severity was as loud as a scream. Razor-wire teeth had shredded the Bard a new one the size of the fucking Grand Canyon. And it’d healed hollow – as though too little skin had been stretched to cover the damage. Busted ribs and half-eaten lungs were the least of its problems out here, where the fucking
leech
was the height of hot meditech –

How had he – ?

“Seeking lost lore, on a reconnaissance mission to Rammouthe.” Ruefully, Roderick looked north-east, ran his fingers over the scar. “I was running scout, and disturbed a knot of sleeping magharta. Not something I’d recommend.”

“You oughta be dead.” Ecko studied the Bard’s pretty-boy face for signs of rotting. “You’re not, are you? You’re not gonna pull some fetid zombie undead bullshit?”

“Fetid zombie undead bullshit?”

“Oh for chrissakes. I mean: why the fucking hell’re you still breathing?”

“I won’t get let off that easily?” Roderick grinned. “Once magharta start eating, they’re not easy things to stop.”

“Don’t gimme the smart-ass remarks – if you got monster issues, I’m your fucking exterminator. Tell me where they’re at and it’ll all be over by dinnertime.”

And I can get the hell outta here.

“Only monster in here is in the kitchen, cooking breakfast.” Leaving Ecko to catch the skylight, the Bard jumped down onto the landing. “C’mon, let’s go give Kale a hand.” He glanced back up, gave a brief chuckle. “He might even let you start the fire.”

* * *

Downstairs, the front doors of the taproom were propped open and the sounds of water and birds were carried in on sweet, clean air. Karine was already there, counting a stack of pottery bottles on the bar top and making marks on the papers that Ecko had seen the previous night. Beside her was a slender, wide-eyed waif who looked no older than sixteen.

Standing in the open doorway, arms folded and watching the river, stood a silent, self-possessed man who turned and nodded at them as they came in. His pale hair shone in the sunshine and, like Karine, he seemed far too young.

There was a long scar across one of his ears.

“Ecko.” His voice was clear and calm – it was the voice that Ecko had heard when he’d awoken. “Welcome to The Wanderer. I’m Sera – I didn’t see you last night as you had so much to take in. Though, this morning, I fear you may have rather more.” There was no trace of humour in his expression or voice. “The city is about to land on our doorstep.”

City?

Almost in spite of himself, Ecko craned to look past where the man stood, flicking his anti-daz against the sun’s shine on the river. There was a boat full of people already halfway across, figures at the bow pointing and talking.

He groaned. “Jesus, do you people sleep?”

Karine said, “Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three. We’re two short. Can we get a messenger to go back to the bazaar – I’ll need at least fifteen more of the spirits and all the ales they’ve got. And wine – we’re close enough to Padesh to make it the good stuff. Kale needs fresh veg, whatever the farms have brought in.”

Roderick caught Ecko’s black gaze, and winked.

But Karine was not slowing down.

“Silfe,” she called to the waif, “can you get me the loose terhnwood? And the scales? And Sera, can you sort the loading? I don’t want the chain through here, take them round the back and load directly. When they’re done, send them to me.”

“Ecko,” Sera said. “How d’you fancy joining me on a loading crew?”

“How d’you fancy a new asshole?”

The pale-haired man turned fully from the view of the water. Ecko watched him, daring him to start – what’d they said about him killing nine people? – but he said only, “It seems we already have one.”

That one caught Ecko clean under his guard. He spluttered, “You –”

“Whoah.” Roderick placed a hand on Ecko’s shoulder. “It’s far too early to be starting fights. If you wait until after breakfast, we’ll all come outside and watch.”

“Yeah, maybe you can make a
wager.
” Shaking off the contact, he looked for a corner, somewhere away from the door and the light and the banter and the incoming people. “I still dunno if I’m even staying... Jesus
Christ
enough already!”

Another door had banged open, startling him. This one loosed the scent of cooking flesh – blood-rich and suddenly, strongly reminiscent of his early childhood. Meat – real animal, raised and killed and carved and sold... The smell was powerful, enticing, slightly sickening. Echoes of his mother’s children’s home swamped him, too many people, too much noise, too much to take in...

For fucksake!

It was overpowering. He gripped the hard edges of Lugan’s lighter and backed to a table at the edge of the room.

Gave himself room to breathe.

The Bard ducked into the kitchen. Crouching on a corner seat and shrinking under his cowl, Ecko stared round at the taproom, at the sunlight, at the people, at the resin stuff – had they called it terhnwood? – hung on the walls.

Analysing. Critical.

Claustro.

He didn’t need this – if he could grab
that
,
that
and as much of the meat as he could carry...

...but he couldn’t bust outta here ’til he knew his ass from his elbow – some random critter would crunch him for a mid-morning snack. He had to get the Idiot’s Guide, the one-oh-one download as to what the hell happened next. Then, God of Evil or no God of Evil,
something
was gonna get its ass kicked.

“Are you hungry?” The Bard had returned with a pair of leather mugs in one hand. “Or are just wondering how much you can steal?”

Ecko glowered at him – shadow skinned, black eyed, black mouthed – his look could send hardened street warriors screaming home for Mommy.

Putting the mugs on the table, Roderick spun a chair round and sat astride it, its back between Ecko and himself.

“So,” he said, “welcome to your first morning.” When Ecko still glared, he grinned. “What can I tell you?”

“Gimme the short version. What I can eat, what’s gonna eat me, and where the Bad Guy’s at.”

“It’s a little more complex than that.”

“What – the God of Evil doesn’t have a bar tab?”

“He’s notoriously bad at trading for his ales... Look.” The Bard picked up his mug as if checking exasperation. “You understand the importance of reconnaissance, intelligence. Knowledge is something I’ve spent my life seeking, and the little I have is –” he gave a wry chuckle “– not nearly enough. I have only rumour, stealthing in the grass like a hunting bweao, and its source eludes me.”

Ecko bit back an immediate response and picked up his mug.

“Rumour of what?” The stuff inside was herbal, it smelled like old socks and green tea. He took a mouthful and scalded his tongue.

Outside, there were voices coming closer, and Roderick, with a glance over his shoulder at the door, began to speak more quickly.

“There is much lore you should know, Ecko, lore that I alone have use for – but I fear this morning, the Count of Time is against us. For now, I will say only this: that we of the Grasslands are no longer warriors. Our last war is forgotten, the memory discarded. Our Elementalists, the priests of the people, once teachers and guides, have long since faded into tavern-tales and trickery. The Powerflux, the surge of element to element across the world, is gone and lost.” He reached up, took a resin blade from the wall and laid it across the table. In the morning sun, it shone like gold; it was exquisitely decorated and there was a mark, a symbol of some sort, carved into it at the crossguard. It was significant, but for the moment, Ecko did not know why.

The Bard glanced again at the door. “With this long freedom from both strife and learning, we have become a culture dependent upon the cycles of our trade. Upon
this.
” He turned the blade to catch the light. “As Fhaveon took power in the Varchinde, so she became the greatest source of terhnwood – this resin and fibre that makes our every quintessential craft and tool. The GreatHeart Rakanne gifted Fhaveon’s terhnwood to the plains in return for trade of wood, and stone, and food, and spice – and now, that trade is our lifeblood. To maintain that circulation, much of our population roves free, carrying craftmarked goods from bazaar to bazaar, from city to city, and this has swollen our trade-roads into ribbon-towns and markets and caravanserai. There are pirates, of course, and there are soldiers to face them; there are farmlands that tithe into the cities for terhnwood of their own. The system is complex, warded by craftmarks and tallies and tithehalls – Karine could explain such things to you more than I.”

“What – terhnwood makes your world go round?” Ecko wasn’t laughing. Something about the Bard’s plea was chillingly familiar.

Our last war is forgotten, the memory discarded.

There were feet getting closer on the path outside.

“We are complacent in our comforts,” Roderick said, “and ruled by our merchants. Our satisfaction is surpassed only by blindness. Yet now, rumours rise like figments, hauntings of imagination. And without our lore...”

There was a shadow in the doorway, the sound of feet on stone and an awkward throat-clearing. “Um. Hello?”

“Without our lore,” the Bard finished, “I fear they will surpass us and we will be lost.”

At the door loitered a small gaggle of locals who’d paused, peering into the building as if it would haze out of existence like a mirage. As the Bard turned, they shoved one of their number forwards – a young man, a heavy bag in one hand and a hat wrung to a rag in the other. From his garments, Ecko’s mind instantly labelled him “farmer”.

Sera stood like a wall, unspeaking.

Karine called from behind the bar top, “Morning! Are you trader or worker? If you’re here to get legless, you’ll have to wait until highsun when we’re fully stocked.”

“Please,” the young man said, looking from face to face. “I’m neither. I came to ask a question.”

And he-eere we go...
With a mirthless smirk, Ecko shrank back, watching.
So – what’s it gonna be? Great Mage? Demon? Dark Druid? Put your cards down, Eliza, let’s see whatcha got...

“Of course.” The Bard came to his feet. “What can we do for you?”

When a fellow behind him gave him a nudge, the young man swung the heavy, drawstring bag onto the nearest table. It hit with a thump. Ecko’s oculars kicked and tracked, but the contents were heavy, motionless and cold.

Dead, or he was a monkey’s asshole.

The boy opened the string. With some effort, he pulled free a creature.

Ecko spun his telescopics.

The beastie was unfamiliar, but dead as fuck. It was doglike, long legged and skinny, though deep chested with powerful back legs and a balancing tail. It could probably stand on its hind paws if it had to, or spring extremely high – certainly high enough to see over tall grass.

Intrigued now, Ecko shifted so he could see it properly.
Oh c’mon, what’s it gonna do? Animate? Skeletal lich dog? Oh, you so know you wanna...

The thing just lay there.

Karine bawled, “Oi! Get that off my table!”

But Kale was in the kitchen doorway, his face bothered and frowning.

Ecko tensed, but the cook’s temperature was normal. He seemed puzzled, intense.

Roderick ran a hand over the thing’s flank. He said, “Where did this come from?”

The young man bobbed his head, twisted his hat. His friends had crowded in though the door and they jostled each other to see.

“Please, we found it. It was alive – quite friendly really.” He looked upset. “We tried to feed it and it just died. My family’re farmers, we’re tithed to Vanksraat and our manor’s good to us, we’re only here for the fiveday trade-market. No one knew what it... we tried... and it just toppled over.”

“All right, all right, easy.” Roderick shot a glance at Karine and she reached for a pottery goblet. “Have a seat and let me... dear Gods.”

The smell was enough; it brought Kale right out of the doorway and drove Sera into the sun. The Bard, though, didn’t move a muscle. He stared as though his boots had been nailgunned to the floor.

Ecko craned.

The thing was
rotting.

Right there on the table – as the light touched it, it was superheating and dissolving into mulch. Its skin peeled back to muscle and sinew, black creatures invaded its flesh and ate it from the inside out. Organs swelled and burst and stank and dissolved, bones cracked and twisted. There was the faint smell of burning wood, a thin wisp of smoke.

The scream was Silfe, the outrage Karine, but Ecko was transfixed, his oculars working, working. The heat was localised – some kinda spontaneous beastie combustion. Okay so it wasn’t a skeletal lich dog, but hey, it was still pretty fucking cool.

The young man shook. His friends patted him as he turned away.

But Roderick watched as the thing dissolved to ash and memory, as the invading creatures starved, perished in their turn, and were gone. There was a char mark on the table.

The Bard said, his voice like stone, “Get me a brush.”

His expression was bleak.

As the young man was hustled outside and given a mug of green stuff, Ecko rather thought that shit had just gotten serious.

* * *

Ecko said, “So? What the hell was that?”

The front doors of the tavern were closed. Sera was outside, talking to the boy; Karine and Silfe had vanished with stocklists. With Roderick now was Kale, his worn face troubled.

“It was a nartuk,” Roderick said. “An alchemical cross – they’ve been extinct for hundred of returns. It’s also not the first... oddity... that’s been seen.” His fingers were tapping tattoos on the table. He glanced up at Ecko. “We’re unique here, we amass rumour from all places, much as we amass trade-goods. We’re a node, and our catch-net is very wide.”

“So? What’s one dead critter?”

“So, we were talking about myth, and rumour. I hear things from all over the world, and I piece them together. This isn’t just one creature.”