Ecko Rising (25 page)

“What? You’re not gonna go look for the monsters?” Ecko had a satchel on his shoulder – a one-armed rucksack thing that had been among his scavenged haul. His webbing was likewise stuffed with stolen goodies. He said, “When’re you gonna quit stalling and strap on your hero kit?” His grin was savage.

“I don’t
understand
yet.” For a moment, the Bard’s expression was startled. “I must go to Fhaveon, to Rhan. I must know what these things are, where they came from, why they’re –”

“Another fuckin’ excuse. If you wanna know about monsters, why don’t you go out an’ catch one?”

“The Council has to know!” Roderick brandished his feather like some sort of evidence. “If there are monsters loose, real ones, alchemical creations of flesh and horror – these things have not been witnessed since the days of Tusien itself! This isn’t just a romp, Ecko! The cities must be warned – there are things happening here that are ancient and forgotten, yet new enough to be terrifying, and they involve the fate of the Grasslands entire. I’m no politician
–
”

“No shit.”

“Yet I
must –
!”

“You
must
what? Sometimes I reckon you’ve been waiting for the bad guys so long that you’ve gone batshit.” He sneered. “You gotta
map
downstairs. You’ve had this building – what – forty years? Have you looked at it, plotted anything, worked anything out? You fucking coward.”

The Bard recoiled as if he’d been struck. For a moment, he sought words and found nothing. Ecko waited for the comeback, then snorted pure scorn.

“You’re telling me all merry hell has just broken loose on your doorstep – and the best you can do is sit here and
pray
that your fucking
pub
makes your next decision for you?”

He crossed his arms, waited for the comeback.
Come on then...

“Ecko.”

The word was flat, potent enough to rock him where he stood, his mottled skin and black eyes and black sneer all shaded by his cowl.

He snarled, “What?”

The Bard was on his feet, now, tall and dark.

“This isn’t cowardice – this
is
the decision. Ress must rouse Larred Jade. We must go to Rhan and to the Council in Fhaveon.”

“What? More delegation?”

“You say you’re missing information.” Roderick’s smile was mirthless, the shattered gleam was back in his eyes. “There’s so much you still don’t know –”

“I fuckin’ knew it.”

“Rhan, Ecko. Let’s start with Rhan.” The Bard’s voice rose, shivering the pre-dawn air. “You jest about facing some ‘God of Evil’, about how your purpose is to defeat them? What if I told you that you’re wrong? What if I told you that the Godsfather Samiel sent an envoy, a creature of white warfare, of pure elemental light, to be the guardian of this world, and to guard and guide her?”

Ecko thought,
Oh you hafta be kidding me...

“We have our champion Ecko. Rhan
is
that creature, he
is
this world’s true hero. He’s our mentor and warden and he’s lived in the Lord City four hundred returns. He stands at the right hand of the Lord Founderson. He defends stone and soil and flesh and family.” Roderick held up the feather. “I’m mortal, with a task to perform. My time is long, even for one of Tundran blood, but it is finite. Rhan is something else entirely. What did you think this was?”

“Actually I thought it was a
pen.
” The comeback was quick, but Ecko’s thoughts were a seethe of darkness. In the still, dim air of the taproom, the rising shadows jeered him.

There’s so much you still don’t know...

Roderick said, every word a barb, “You’ve made a short-sighted and frankly quite arrogant assumption, but perhaps your future is not that clear or simple?”

His words were cut short by a sharp judder, a shock that rippled through the air like a concussion.

“Our ‘God of Evil’ already has his enemy,” Roderick said softly. He was a figure of gloom and air and strength and now madness, the shadows of the taproom rose around him in billowing darkness, the light from the feather illuminated the lunacy in his gaze. “The world has brought you here for a purpose, certainly, but we have to understand how you
fit
with her vision. We can’t just – !”

The floor shook, from one end to the other.

“You crazy-ass motherfucker! I’m not...? Then what the hell am I...?”

The floor shook again.

“The world’s vision, Ecko! Her nightmare! There is something else, something greater, something vast and timeless and forgotten. And things have come to pass this evening – critical things. It all starts from here, Ecko –
your
foe,
your
fight. We
must
go to Fhaveon! Rhan
must
see us! He will help us understand!”

“
Batshit!
” Baffled, reeling with confusion, Ecko’s words were reflex – he had no idea what to think. “You’re a coward and a fucking liar!” This world
had
a champion? This world
had
a hero? He didn’t understand, he didn’t even want to – all he knew was that he was floundering. He was surfing the shaking floor over a sea of what-the-fuck and he no longer knew what the hell was going on. Every time he thought he understood...

...that fucking bitch Eliza threw him a curve ball.

If she’d built this world for
him
– why pre-program a ready-coded champion? An uber-hero superbeing just gagging to spank the Lord of Chaos’s ass the second his alarm went off? Was she trying to make Ecko take second place, learn humility – give someone else the glory?

Become a “team player”?

Well, fuck
that
. If eating shit was his exit door? He’d burn this place to the fucking
ground
first.

You hear that you bitch? I’ll burn it
down
!

In his head, clear as an aural upload, he heard smoothly androgynous tones,
Success of scenario projected at 02.64%. Awaiting further parameters.

Collator.

His anger froze into fear, and shattered.

The voice had been so clear in his mind that he fought the urge to spin round, to turn his oculars on every corner of the taproom, on the tables, the bar top, the fireplace, the door... his adrenals were kicked, he was shaking with the stress of his restraint.

Move and countermove. He could never win. This was in his
head.
He was hearing
voices
for fuck’s sake. His grip on this reality was slipping like his grip on Grey’s fucking wall – he half expected the whole scene to dissolve to greenscreen any second. He had no control over his own mind – Eliza could replace his memories, make him hear and see things, jump him round like a circus freak hit with an electroprod... and now, quite literally, he’d lost the fucking plot. If Rhan was the ready-programmed hero...

The air was starting to twist.

...then why the hell was he here?

The tavern juddered again. Like a bad trip, any second now...

Roderick’s grin spread wider than his face. He loomed with power and the light from his eyes glittered in shards of splintered amethyst. Any moment now, he was going to laugh – and that laugh would echo across the grass and the tavern would ride it, twisting out of reality only to fall into existence far, far away from where the Banned girl had gone...

The world slewed around the edge of the plughole, and it started to scream.

But Ecko made his decision, and the pattern be damned. Faster than the light, faster than the darkness, he was gone.

PART 3:
_WAVES

13: RHAN

                    
FHAVEON

Rhan Elensiel, Lord Seneschal of Fhaevon, Foundersson’s Champion, Gift of of the Godsfather and First Voice of the Council of Nine, was having trouble waking up.

The clear night air had congealed into a milky early morning. His mouth tasted like an esphen’s backside and some motherless bastard had stuffed his head with grass. The wisdom of four hundred returns had taught Rhan many things – among them, the ability to know when he’d overdone it.

Dear Gods. You’d think I’d’ve learned by now.

With an effort, he sat up, rubbed a hand through his dishevelled white hair and ground his gaze into focus.

Samiel’s
bollocks.

He’d passed out in his front room again, apparently not able to make it as far as the door. Across the tall windows, his shutters were closed and the lingering smoke coiled though stripes of early sunlight. Around the room was a scatter of debris: carafes and goblets, empty food platters, long-stemmed pipes tumbled free from their stands. There were also various recumbent friends, in various stages of nakedness, each snoring gently in the aftermath of the previous night’s revelry.

Oh, all right.
The thought was sarcastic, it’d been a very long time since he’d actually given a shit.
I’ve really overdone it this time.

But remind me why it matters?

With a faint, sardonic chuckle, Rhan sat up, creaking his heavy, pale shoulders to ease the knots in his back. His neck cracked. Immortality, for the Gods’ sakes – frankly, it was overrated.

He reached for the nearest goblet, took a swig of the remaining wine and, still creaking, unfolded to his feet.

So. What threats does the world have for me today? Petty squabbling among the journeying merchants? Piracy? A shortage of roast esphen for the Foundersson’s dinner?

Or perhaps the Halls of Above have reopened and allowed the stars back into the sky...

Protector of the World, indeed.

He took another swig of lukewarm red.

There were times down through the returns when Rhan had wondered if he shouldn’t’ve been the inevitably ageing greybeard after all: the twinkly-eyed, wise-and-hale old man with the sinister presence and power to spare and the origin lost in mystery. He’d had the choice – he could’ve been anything.

But he’d figured that immortality was at least supposed to be fun.

Rhan had forgone storyteller-vagabond, chosen instead a form of height and breadth and strength. He was a carven statue, pale skinned and powerful, classic in feature and form. As carefully crafted as the very city herself, he was a warrior, Fhaveon’s guardian and defender.

Hero. Or something like that.

Yet, down through the city’s long returns, his titles had become hollow, jests bereft of anything but taunt – his dark foe had never come back. Instead of righteous fighter, Rhan had been a petty politician for four hundred returns – and
that
was cursed purgatory.

Who said the Gods didn’t have sense of humour?

The brief, acid chuckle came again. However he may physically appear, his immortality was its own blight – even the parties had palled in the end. There were many times he’d wondered if his damned brother had not been the lucky one. He, at least, must still have his passion.

Take me home, Samiel, Godsfather. I’ve paid for my misdeed. Enough now.

But the father of the Gods, as ever, wasn’t listening.

Rhan had another slug of wine and rubbed the drowsiness out of his eyes.

Around him, his scattering of companions remained motionless. They were a ramshackle assortment, with one thing in common – they were his friends, and he cared little for age or status. He’d watched some of them grow from youngsters, known their parents and their families for generations gone. They were mortal, bright, fragile, and their time was so short – yet they gave him hope. While their lives and vibrancy could still touch him, he could still find the light in his heart.

Though there were times when he had to employ some interesting methods to remember where he’d left it.

Carefully, Rhan picked his way across the room, retrieving goblets and platters. He leaned down to pick up a pipe, tapped the ash into a bowl. By the Gods, if any of Mostak’s overzealous grunts were to aim a heavy boot at his front door, he’d have a whole lot of explaining to do. The city’s soldiery would take a completely different view of his habits – and
then
it would matter a great deal.

Humourless thugs – they were all about the rules. No damned respect for age or seniority.

What was that old jest about soldiers looking younger every return?

He picked up the ash bucket to dispose of the evidence. Four hundred returns or not, it was probably wise to be careful.

Four hundred returns
, name of the Gods, the number was ludicrous. He’d no idea where that time had even gone.

The city had been in her infancy when Rhan had first come here. Still torn and bleeding, broken in body and in soul, he’d washed up at Fhaveon a shattered thing, uncomprehending of the punishment and responsibility that the God Samiel had decreed for him.

The price of his transgression – and the duty he’d carried ever since.

Garland House, at almost her highest point, had been the gift of the First Lord Tekissari, eldest child of Saluvarith the Founder, and, at that time, barely more than a youth.

Teki himself, his daughter the GreatHeart Rakanne who’d gifted terhnwood to the Varchinde, her son Adward the Consolidator who’d then brought that gift back under Fhaveon’s hegemony and designed the trade-rotations of the plains – from his very arrival, Rhan had stood by House Valiembor, parent and child, lord and leader. The God Samiel had decreed it, and so it must be. Each child of the city’s Lord, each newborn Foundersson or Daughter, had been placed in his white hands as a babe, and he’d held them against his chest – so tiny, so wondrous and inexplicable! – and sworn his limitless life in their defence.

And he’d upheld that oath. Always.

But as the returns had bled by, his very oath had become empty – what could challenge him? The city was secure, the plains at peace, the scufflings of the Council essentially trivial. The terhnwood grew, its circulation was sure; the grass was harvested. He had everything he could want and he was
bored.