by Danie Ware
PRAISE FOR ECKO RISING
“Danie Ware’s first novel is not so much assured as explosive. This is science fiction with the safety catch off. I hope she never runs out of ammunition.” ADAM NEVILL, AUTHOR OF APARTMENT 16
“Ecko Rising explodes onto the page with the manic energy of Richard Morgan’s cyberpunk novels before taking a surprise turn into Thomas Convenant territory. It is strange, surprising, haunting and exceedingly well written. Not to be missed.” LAVIE TIDHAR, AUTHOR OF OSAMA AND THE BOOKMAN HISTORIES
“This may be Ware’s first novel, but she’s been intimately tied to the science fiction, fantasy and horror genres for years through her publicity work. That exposure and experience come to the fore with Ecko Rising, a novel that blends fantasy and science fiction together into an epic story about the titular antihero who aims to do nothing less than save the entire world from extinction.” KIRKUS REVIEWS
“A curious genre-bender that thrusts its anti-hero from a dystopian future into a traditional, Tolkienesque fantasy world... marks Ware as one to watch.” INDEPENDENT ON SUNDAY
“Ware writes fearlessly and with great self-assurance, and Ecko is a magnificent creation.” FINANCIAL TIMES
“An admirably ambitious genre-bending novel, bringing us a memorable character... and world(s) we can’t wait to see more of. Ware’s writing style is a joy to read... brilliant filth with heart... A genuinely impressive exercise in world-building... [A] very memorable piece of work, long may Ecko rise.” STARBURST MAGAZINE
“Ecko Rising is grimy and crazy, and so action-centric, it should have an explosion on every page. It’s crammed with sci-fi cuss words, real cuss words, monsters, and violence. In other words: Buy me.” REVOLUTION SF
“Ware has successfully blended elements of science fiction and epic fantasy to create a unique story in a landscape that has just enough of a modern, dark edge to elevate it from a traditional fantasy journey to something new and compelling. Ware writes with an eloquence that is not often encountered in genre fiction... With a language almost of his own, and a witty inner monologue to match, Ecko is a captivating hero... A successfully fresh ‘something for everyone’ approach to genre fiction.” THE BRITISH FANTASY SOCIETY
“Ecko Rising is an incredible read, with completely unexpected twists and turns... The worlds described within the book are complete and understandable, and you might want to live in at least one of them. The author’s diverse knowledge of subcultures within our society is evident and well used. The cliff-hanger at the end has left this reader aching for more.” GEEK SYNDICATE
“Ingenious... The story itself is engaging and totally unique, a plot that pushes the boundaries not for the sake of it but clearly to offer something different.” SFBOOK
“Danie Ware effortlessly juggles a dystopian hard sci-fi environment with a fantasy world with its own very specific set of rules, and comes up with a story that keeps you gripped... This is a strong debut; I suspect Ware will be a name to watch out for in future.” SCI-FI BULLETIN
“Ecko Rising mixes science fiction à la early years Michael Marshall with the comedic fantasy of Terry Pratchett and the sprawling authenticity of J. R. R. Tolkien’s Middle-earth... staggeringly impressive in both its richness and detail... A hugely enjoyable genre mash-up that promises great things to come from first-time author Danie Ware.” ALTERNATIVE MAGAZINE ONLINE
ECKO BURNING
DANIE WARE
TITAN BOOKS
Ecko Burning
Print edition ISBN: 9781781169087
E-book ISBN: 9781781169094
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: October 2013
Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
Danie Ware asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
© 2013 by Danie Ware.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
* * *
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* * *
FOR MY BROTHER ALAN,
TO WHOM SO MUCH OF THIS BELONGS
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
PART 1: NODES
AFTERMATH / HARVEST FESTIVAL / FAMILY / PLAYING THE GAME / NIVROTAR / MWENAR / CATALYST / BROTHER / FIRE WITH FIRE / INTERLUDE: UNINVITED GUEST
PART 2: PATTERNS
DANCING / RESISTANCE / CRAFTMARK / FOUNDERSDAUGHTER / CREATURES CREATED / TRIANGLE CITY / INTERLUDE: KHAMSIN
PART 3: DESIGN
FEAR / MERCHANT MASTER / BURNING IT DOWN / THE STORM BREAKS / CHOICES / INTERLUDE: THE FATE OF THE WANDERER
PART 4: DESTRUCTION
NO TIME / MANIFEST / RAGE / KAS VAHL ZAXAAR / HERO / HALF-DAMNED / PATTERNS
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE AEONA
She’d walked their halls of decadence with wonder.
Now she leaned out over the parapet, breathing in the sunlight, the salt air, like amazement. They watched her through their shared eye, their curiosity whetted and mutual.
“But how do you do this stuff?” She turned to face them, bright with attitude. She was defiant, mischievous and confrontational. “Does anyone know? The Great Library, the Bard...”
Anticipation cut through them both, savage and immediate.
I want her, I want -!
No. Denial was absolute. I’m not giving you one this young. She’s mine. You know why. The creature in his soul slavered at him.
Hungry.
I said “no”. Ice-cold, he forced it down. The Count of Time has brought her here for good reason. It glowered at him for a moment, considering, then fell silent.
Patience, he told it.
He turned back to the girl, laughing with her. “I have all the company I need,” he said, amused. “Aeona’s my home -everything’s here; my work, my art, my life. It’s quiet here, I don’t want it invaded.” He joined her, age-spotted hands on worn, pastel stone. Beneath his skin, ink writhed - marks he could never lose slid across his fingers and circled his wrists like serpents.
When he turned to look at her - one eye seeing, the other, the dark one, covered - she caught her breath.
“Shar,” he said her name with affection. “You’ve seen only the beginning.” His gaze caught hers, held it. “Would you like to see more?”
“You can’t have anything else!” Her laugh was casual, thrown away by clean sea wind. Blue water dashed into whiteness on rocks far below. “Why are you even out here?”
Ah, little one. So many questions.
Her lips were parted; her varicoloured eyes shone. He liked her eyes, one blue, one green - they were unusual, they’d caught his interest like a portent. He thought he might keep them.
“Come,” he said.
* * *
Light flooded the high garden, the stone cloisters; a glitter of autumn leaves hung from the pergolas and danced in the breeze. This time, she stare
d more at the scatter of creatures, his menagerie, his creations and artworks. He walked with purpose and she occasionally ran to keep pace, feet swift on patterned mosaic. Dapples of sun slid over her skin.
“What’re they for?” she asked.
“Themselves.” He gave her an amused shrug. “Me. I like them, and they have a good home here.”
They passed across the shadow of a statue, a creature of hooves and horns loomed above them.
“But why don’t you let them go?”
“To what end?” He raised his one eyebrow. “Freedom isn’t a gift to one who can’t use it.”
She frowned at him.
He pushed open a door. “Here.”
Yes, draw her in. Make her -!
Be silent.
The room was dim, shelves heavy with books. He let her wander, her fingers trailing over their spines. Somewhere in his heart, the creature hissed with heat and helpless fury.
Let me taste her. Or I will rend your insides to bloody shreds. I will tear myself free of your flesh, rip down the skies and rain death on this accursed rock -
Peace. Your melodrama bores me. I’ll bring you what you need - in time. You wait until I say.
I starve; you perish. Where is your learning then?
I won’t let you starve.
He laughed again and the girl turned to look at him, soft in the grey air.
“Come here,” he said gently.
She came, still cocky as she laid a hand on his shoulder. Her chin tilted sideways, assumption and invitation. For a moment, he allowed himself to be charmed by her brazenness.
The creature in him trembled.
And the blade opened her throat.
A single slash, a red line, a ripping, widening smile. A flood of rich darkness that covered his hands, concealed the ever-moving sigils. He caught her as she fell, bubbles on her lips and a final look of shock in those strange, two-coloured eyes. He was sorry to waste her this way, but he - they - sought answers. As if those eyes were a harbinger, a warning from the Count of Time itself, they sought answers now.
They laid her out on the stone floor, life running forgotten to the sea far below.
A single blow shattered her sternum. It took the strength of the creature within him to crack her ribcage and part the two sides like doors - tearing her open to reach the truth that lay within.
Her lungs fluttered; her heart beat desperately, struggled, and was still.
The creature in him pulsed with blood and eagerness; his skin bulged to contain it. Slowly, he raised a bloodied hand and lifted the covering on his darker eye.
Tell me, he said silently. Tell me what you have seen.
It repulsed his clinical nature - but his need for knowledge was absolute.
Foolish! It was laughing, the sound immortal and terrible. The world is wounded, riven to her heart, and now a canker spreads through her flesh. Despite Maugrim’s failure, Roviarath will fall to her knees. Fhaveon lies trembling, her pale thighs wide. Old forces muster at Rammouthe; they have waited so long. And the Bard is gone...
The creature paused.
What?
Ineffectual, his presence or his absence matter not.
Its scorn was like a blade, it severed his consciousness, thought from thought. Under the full onslaught of its presence, he could barely remember who he was - even as it spoke, it pried into his mind with hot, curious fingers, baring his innermost weaknesses, laughing at his doubts and fears. One day, it would tear his soul to screaming shreds.
But not today.
Tell me what you have seen! he demanded.
I know that the world has found eyes, it said, sounding faintly amused. But they’re crazed and broken, and she struggles to focus - to mesh thought and memory once more.
It paused. He found he had to stare at the girl, blood congealing on her skin.
And I have seen something new, something different. It was piqued - he had never heard it sound so... curious. Something that had might enough to thwart Maugrim’s growth. Something dark, cruel, tortured. Something insane. Something that walks as though in a maze of its own mind - and something that -
The creature caught itself.
Something you’ll want, my estavah. Something that may hold the key to the greatest knowledge of all.
The creature could not suppress its hunger: it flooded the man’s mouth like warm red wine. He swallowed.
You can’t fool me, my creature. The want is yours. What are you withholding from me? He pushed back, demanding. How does the world find her vision? Seek her memory? What has happened to the Bard?
It laughed at him then, displaying a cruelty and power so vast he found himself shuddering physically, backing away from the torn-open corpse of the girl.
Ah, my old friend, it said. Do you not trust me, even now?
The girl’s head turned. He thought he saw her exposed lungs inflate, her bloodied lips make words. Trust me, she mouthed silently. Trust -
He dropped the covering over the eye.
The girl was still, ripped open like a bweao’s uneaten kill. She had not moved.
You seek ultimate comprehension, the creature said, its tone enticing, a dark charisma that teased sweat from his shoulders. This - man - believes he has it. You should bring him to us, my friend; my captor.
Struggling, he said nothing, thought nothing. Mind empty, he stared down at the girl. Her eyes were open, that look of shock still on her face. She’d given them answers, but raised only more questions.
Sea birds cried as if in mourning; the breeze rattled the shutters. He shivered.
The creature was hiding something, something he couldn’t touch. It was laughing at him. And yet he needed to know, had to know.
Aloud, he said, “‘...that walks as though in a maze of its own mind.’”
The words echoed hollow in the silence between them. The girl cooled on the floor.
Bring him, it said. Coax him; make him come to us. He cannot be broken, but he is in need of a mentor, a father, and you can make him trust you.
Why do you care, creature? What do you want?
I? The creature was grinning - a white slash of savagery in the darkness. Somewhere, embers smouldered in yellow eyes. Trust me, my estavah, my brother. The greatest knowledge requires the greatest risk. Bring Ecko to Aeona, tear him wide, and you will craft the greatest creations of your life.
PART 1: NODES
1: AFTERMATH THE GREAT FAYRE, ROVIARATH
The Great Fayre, the trading heart of the grasslands, lay ruined.
In the long light of evening, the fading sun stretched red fingers between the ruined stalls, touching at the remnants of lives that had been. Though the surrounding grass burned a thousand glorious shades of autumn, here the ground was churned to muddy ruts, the pathways littered with wreckage.
Scavenger birds circled, their cries harsh.
Surrounding two-thirds of the walls of Roviarath, the plains’ central city, the bright jumble of the bazaar had been shattered to fragments. Gone now were the traders and the tellers and the tricksters, the fakirs and the forgers, the bullies and the beggars. Gone were the creatures that had assailed the Fayre’s vulnerability, that had been assaulted and thrown back by the city’s rallied forces. And gone too were the opportunists, the looters and the pirates that had followed in the wake of the fighting.
About its edges, there remained a scatter of unbroken stalls - now home to the displaced and the desperate. Figures loitered silent, watching through eyes that were hard, or broken, or expectant. They watched the lines of workers that combed the devastation.
Ribald and vocal, the workers paid them no attention - instead, they called jests to each other across the debris. Steadily, they picked over the Fayre’s wreckage - strewn trade-goods, pieces of blackened, superheated stone. Through-routes were cleared, neat stacks were piled, orders were barked and passed along. Bookkeepers noted trade-routes and craftmarks, and took careful tallies of what little remained.
Sometimes, there would be a flicker of fur and shadow, and a skulking creature would steal through the ruins. Then the workers would stamp their feet and throw things - but their archers did not shoot, though they were arrows nocked and heads turning, aware of the rising dark.
Watching them, Ecko had kinda guessed their targets had two feet, not four.
But that was fine - like they could see him anyhow.
Slipping through the debris, his chameleon skin shifting to the colours of sunset and shadow, he was a tattered ghost, unseen, unheard. He’d been out here before, helping himself to the good shit - hell, he had a whole stash to replace - and knew full well that he’d be a porcupine if they saw him. But face it, these guys had about as much chance of seeing him as they did of booking him a ticket back to London Heathrow.
Bring it on, guys; give it your best Robin Hood...
Stranger in a strange world, Ecko had come to realise one thing about this medieval mudbath - no one had seen anything like him before. Might even go as far as saying the culture shock was theirs, not his.
He watched the workers’ progress, grinning.
Over them, the evening light faded, and died. The sunset glow deepened to darkness, and eventually the crews withdrew. The city’s lighthouse tower swelled slowly to a white star of hope.
This is Roviarath, it said, central and victorious. This is the heart of the Varchinde plain.
Yeah, thought Ecko, this is the city whose ass I just saved. Call me “Child of Prophecy”, tick the “Dungeon” box, an’ gimme my fuckin’ gold coins, already.
Yet when the final horn-call sounded and the gate swung closed, he was still outside its walls.
* * *
The great wooden doors gave their final thudding, a reverberation like a heart’s last beat.
Orphaned now, the Fayre looked like some derelict carnival, garish and spooky - a perfect playground for the rising, brain-hungry shamble of the recently deceased.
