Ecko Burning

by Danie Ware

  The world would care for her own, take them home.

  And me? Rhan wondered. Where do I go now?

  The girl was smiling, oddly peaceful - he was glad for her, but she had no answer to give him.

  Where do I go now?

  Rhan stayed kneeling, almost as if waiting for direction to come to him.

  He should return to Fhaveon and face Phylos. He should trace the unnatural steam-heat in the Merchant Master’s aspect all the way back to his fallen brother. He should rise up, raise a war-banner, muster the force to regain his city...

  But the girl lay there, answerless and unmoving, her family around her. And the creatures lay there too, their dead flesh steaming like a shimmer in the clear air...

  Steam...

  Oh dear Goddess.

  With a hot, sick rush that almost made him tumble sideways, he made the connection.

  He was on his feet in an instant, staring down at them, feeling elation and terror and kicking himself...

  How could he have missed the link? How could he have missed it!

  That was why he knew them!

  He’d seen such creations before, of course he had. Hundreds of returns before, these were creatures created to assault the white walls of Fhaveon, creatures designed for warfare. They had been crafted long ago, crafted by the hands of Kas Vahl Zaxaar himself. Crafted from...

  Crafted from flesh.

  Vahl was Rhan’s brother, closer than any mortal creature could ever be; anything he’d touched carried the richness and glory and taint of his presence.

  And Rhan could feel it, metal fetter or no.

  Vahl’s presence had ridden Phylos like a cloak, a shadow. But if he was really awake...?

  Samiel’s teeth!

  Rhan was trembling, pacing. The understanding was like a drop-key in a lock, a perfect and flawless fit - he had no doubt that his conclusion was true. But it led to only more questions.

  These were vialer, he remembered them now. He’d thrown enough of them down. They were foot troops, fought in knots or from chariots, dispensable, and they’d once raged in their hundreds. But why were they here, now? Why had they come out after the girl, her moss-rotted family?

  Vahl, you old bastard. What are you doing?

  The girl stared still; her eyes open to the sky. There were aperios over the trees, attracted to the reek of death - it would take them a moment to spiral down. Their appetites were ghoulish, but he did not fear them - they, too, had a task to perform.

  Rhan turned to pace again, the grass under his boots now soaked in gore.

  He remembered Roderick, remembered the old stone guardian that had fallen from the walls of Fhaveon - a fragment of lost Tusienic alchemy, seeking absolution and answer.

  Have you not felt it, Master of Elemental Light?

  He had scorned it then, concerned only with Fhaveon and her petty politics, concerned only with returning to his hedonistic life. But now this had all raged out of control. He had seen Vahl’s shadow, but had thought that he had time to rally, to reconsider and to counterattack before -

  Had Fhaveon fallen that far already?

  That thought brought him to a halt; his skin crackled with ice-cold horror.

  Fhaveon had fallen already - and without even a battle. Vahl had charmed Phylos, his vialer were loose in the plains. Rhan had lost the war before he’d raised a weapon...

  He had no weapons to raise.

  Rhan lifted his wrist so that the metal band caught the sun. His sudden terror flashed hot and cold, disbelief and dismay.

  By his feet there were crawlies creeping, seeking the girl’s flesh. Around her, the three vialer lay shattered, taunting him with the knowledge that he could still fight if he had to.

  But how many more were there? Where were they coming from? Did they already walk the streets of Fhaveon - the very streets he had thrown them from, four hundred returns before?

  Rhan needed the Bard, needed his vision and insight, his direction.

  Rhan needed an army.

  His despair loomed grey, a cloud over the morning - This is too big, you have already lost, why bother now? But he would not, could not, leave Vahl to victory.

  A glint of morning sunlight caught his notice, and he bent down, unclipped a small red-metal brooch from the girl’s shoulder. It was poorly crafted and held little value, but he lifted it anyway and held it to his own shabby cloak, the disguise he’d taken when he’d left the city.

  And, as the rising sun touched down through the canopy, and the autumn mist began to evaporate from the grass - as the aperios descended with their ominous cackle - Rhan stood with the brooch glinting at his shoulder.

  Have you not felt it, Master of Elemental Light?

  He closed his eyes, raised his face to the dawn.

  And he tried, one last time, tried to fight past the barrier that numbed him. He willed it to happen, opened his mind, his heart, his soul, to the Powerflux - to the great web of life that enwrapped the world, to the cycling rhythm of day and night and season and element. To the souls of the elements themselves - to the thrill of the pulse and thrum that connected them, to the light of the drowned OrSil.

  He was Dael Rhan Elensiel, the last of his kind undamned. He had not failed in his duty - not yet.

  The great cycling of the Flux would be his succour and knowledge. Light could be savage, an element used for battle, but it could also bring understanding - illumination.

  He would stretch his awareness throughout the Flux itself and feel - feel the presence and absence of those whom the world knew, feel his friends and his foes, the health of the Flux entire.

  He would know what to do.

  But there was nothing. A grey hollow of despair where the Light should have been.

  Once - how many cycles ago? - he and Roderick had discussed their next move. Where they would go from here.

  He remembered, he had said to the Bard...

  “You hold the thoughts of the world in your mortal mind and your beating heart - and they overwhelm you. I know the fear that lives in your soul, that it eats you by the day and haunts you in the darkness... Trust me, trust yourself. If this fails - and it might - then we go to the one place that can answer every question. Probably the one place that you should have damned-well gone to start with.

  “We ask Mother.”

  Rhan could not relocate, but he could walk.

  And he could walk north. To the birthplace of Roderick the Bard, Guardian of the Ryll, to the border city of Avesyr.

  And then onwards, through into the Khavan Circle and the waters that it protected.

  To the one place where the thoughts of the world were made manifest. To the one help that may yet remove the metal fetter from his wrist. To the heart and mind of his mother.

  To the Ryll.

  9: FIRE WITH FIRE AMOS

  The Lord of Amos stood silent, a shroud of deep bruise-grey swathing her from feet to chin. Her hair was darker than black; her flawless face corpse-pale, all shadow and cheekbone.

  She was in her study, her private space. This was not a room of the court, not even a room of business - this was her personal retreat, hidden at the very height of the palace’s north-eastern tower. The arched windows were unshuttered, their ancient glass thrown open to starless cold and white moonlight. And scattered throughout the square room were the last remnants of her personal hobbies - books and papers, and things that might once have been an orrery, an astrolabe, and a fantastical, elemental compass.

  Now, they were abandoned, useless. Each one was old red-metal, ornate, covered in verdegris and dust tails. Nothing up here had been touched in returns.

  She could barely remember what she had used them for.

  Like the ancient stone about her, the Lord’s memory was crumbling - the Count of Time too much to bear.

  Why had they come here, those first settlers - where had they come from? The Bard had gleaned much, but the world’s memory, the Ilfe, was as lost as the might and knowledge of the city’s
Great Library. Soon, there would be nothing left.

  Nothing.

  The word made her shiver.

  She leaned her hands on the cold stone of the sill, watched the almost slender curve of the white moon, Alboren, rise slowly over the black water, the dense firefly-sparkle of the city’s Estuary Wharf. His golden sister, her crescent curving the other way, would not rise for a time yet - the son of Samiel was alone and Amos glittered beneath his light.

  The city’s noises carried clear over the river.

  Breaking the long quiet, Amethea said, “My Lord?”

  “So, news comes from Roviarath and Fhaveon alike.” There was no tension in the Lord’s voice; rather, she sounded weary. “The Count of Time moves more swiftly than I would wish - Phylos’s consolidation is startlingly efficient. We must make some hard decisions.” She flicked an eyebrow at them. “Thank you for your competence, Faral, and for your return. Your experience is a solid thing in a world made of doubt.”

  “Thank you, my Lord,” Redlock said.

  “Now, answer me a question.” Nivrotar turned fully from the moonlight, and her expression was lost in shadow. “Do you believe that Roviarath is holding - can hold - against the troubles of the trade-cycle, and against this rise of blight?”

  “Not indefinitely.” The axeman raised both eyebrows and let out his breath in a long and dubious sigh.

  As the Lord turned to look at them, Amethea saw the wall beside her housed a dark stone plaque - ancient wording now blurred into silence by returns without number. It held a solitary handprint, like a signature, long-ago pressed into the stone. She wondered to whom it had belonged.

  But Redlock was still speaking. “Jade’s a smart man, my Lord, canny. And many of his people see him as a hero. He’s got time.”

  But not much.

  He didn’t need to say it aloud.

  “I have ears in Fhaveon,” she said. “Messages reach me that the Council of Nine has become a jest, that the soldiery itself has been - shall we say ‘acquired’? - through Phylos’s charm and manipulation. He is the young Lord Selana’s only advisor, and holds control of her word and ruling. He’ll use her name to uproot and destroy any attempt at resistance. Tell me - what do you smell?”

  “Horseshit, my Lord,” Redlock snorted. “We’re up to our ears in it. I’m more tactician than strategist, but Fhaveon trains, despatches and rotates the soldiery for the entire Varchinde -and if Phylos holds command of that soldiery, he doesn’t need to pick fights. He can mutter something about the threat of the blight, occupy any city he chooses, stuff it to the brim with his grunts, and - ”

  “It’s ‘bow down or else’,” Triqueta cut across him, shrugging. “It’s just so damned slick.”

  “He’s got us over a barrel, all of us,” Redlock agreed. “Oiled and ready for whatever he wants. He holds the very city that was built to be the plains’ defence - he won’t need to start a war, he’ll just occupy. Every soldier in the Varchinde is already answerable to the bad guys. My warrior’s opinion? We’re stuffed.”

  “Then he will grind us into the diseased soil and that will be the end. This end is not acceptable.” Nivrotar turned away, dismissed the idea with such force that it made Amethea shudder with unease.

  Below the tower’s windows, the palace held a roof garden rich with herbs, its design ornate and its significance long forgotten - in the rise of daylight, they might have seen that it edged a fantastical maze, flower-hung walls as old as the Varchinde itself. The Lord was staring out over the top of the puzzle, her pale face as cold as the white moon. Amethea wondered - did she look north to Fhaveon, too far away to see?

  She ventured a thread of hope. “Vilsara used to say the Gods have a pattern, though they’ll never tell us what it is...”

  Nivrotar turned back over her shoulder. “A pattern?” she said. “You suggest that the blight and the might of Fhaveon and the rise of Kas Vahl Zaxaar are intertwined? Why would even the Kas blight the very land they aim to possess? Undermine their own city’s strength? Ah, little priestess. Perhaps they have a pattern of their own?”

  Little priestess... Maugrim’s name for her. The words robbed Amethea of a response and she fell back, biting her lip.

  “I gotta question.” Ecko had been skulking, scuffing his feet in the dirt, paying them little attention. Now, though, he was grinning like a black-toothed bweao, a grin at something only he could see. He said, “Who’s your boss, Red?”

  Redlock frowned. “Only these.” He patted the axes, then a huge grin began to spread across his face. “Oh, you clever little shit...”

  Ecko was almost cackling. Triqueta looked from one man to the other. “What? What?”

  Redlock laughed, then paused to cough. “Triq, it’s a thing of beauty, think about it. How big is the Banned? Combatants, I mean. How big?”

  She blinked at him, her opal stones glimmering. “I don’t know. Fifty, sixty, could be a few more. It’s rare we’re all together in the same place.”

  Redlock watched her expression, waiting for her to catch up. “And how many warrior freeman worked out of the Great Fayre? If you had to guess?”

  Triqueta said, “Oh come on, you know that more than I do. They’re scattered, I don’t think anyone tallies their numbers. They’re just that, freemen, not soldiers, they’re an integral part of the trade-cycle. They’re not answerable to... Oh for Gods’ sakes.”

  Redlock was laughing. “With me?”

  Nivrotar watched them both intently. Ecko eyed the ceiling with mock innocence, as though he’d just solved all of the Varchinde’s problems with his own sharp wit.

  Amethea said, “What are you on about?” Her humour was arch. “Some of us don’t actually kill people for a living.”

  “It’s so simple, it’s perfect.” Redlock gripped her shoulder, still grinning. “There are warriors across the grasslands that aren’t a part of the Fhaveonic military - we’re freemen, usually operating out of a single city or location. Some trade purely on reputation - I do. Others work as units, sort of crafthouses in their own right, I suppose, though their trading’s with the craftsmen and tithehalls directly, rather than with either the military, or with the Cartel.” He shook his head. “You with me? Ecko’s a cursed genius.”

  “And then there’s Syke and the Banned,” Triqueta said, “currently holding Roviarath - if they muster, that’s a small damned army right there. Ready and waiting. Jade understands the trade-cycle, he must know what’ll happen...”

  “Of course he does.” The axeman turned to meet the Lord of Amos’s gaze. “Would you face Phylos? Challenge this?”

  “Directly?” Nivrotar smiled. “Probably not. But if - when - Fhaveon overextends her borders, could we muster enough strength to defend ourselves?”

  “Whoah, you hold your fuckin’ horses, there,” Ecko said. “You lot couldn’t fight your way outta wet paper bag - you haven’t gotta fucking clue, no discipline, no army, no tactics. You’re gonna need more wellie than idealism an’ a buncha loose grunts.”

  Triq snorted at him. “Why are you even up here? Your conscience got the better of you?”

  He didn’t quite look at her. “I had that shit removed.”

  Amethea said nothing. Ecko’s slight, slim figure was cloak-shrouded, cowl-shadowed, almost impossible to see in the black-and-white moonlight of the tower, the angled shadows of the Lord’s devices. His thin face was exotic, wrong; his black-pit eyes expressionless - she’d no idea in which direction he looked, if he was watching her, his companions, the Lord or the city. Redlock and Triqueta were a known quantity - more or less - but Ecko? He was still unknown, an outsider, a stranger in a tavern tale. He seemed on edge, more so than usual, and she wasn’t sure why.

  He felt almost... eager. Like he knew something they didn’t.

  She wondered what it was.

  “I need numbers,” Nivrotar said. “Information. If we’re to rally a force here, and one in Roviarath, to resist the expansion of Fhaveon, then the Count of Time is aga
inst us. We must do this quickly. And quietly.” She shook her head for a moment, looked out over the garden. “For this, I need the Bard. More now than ever.”

  The comment was followed by silence. After a moment, she went on. “I will send bretir to Larred Jade. And we must hold this information in reserve. The time may well come when we’ll need to strike back, so let us seem quiet, and keep our fists concealed.”

  “So now we recon?” Redlock said. “If you need info, we can be in Fhaveon in -”

  “Not you,” Nivrotar said. “Your red hair is a flag, Faral ton Gattana, your reputation a spark that will light Phylos’s eyes to suspicion, and have them roving to where they are not wanted. Triqueta, Amethea, you will be known to Phylos’s forces, your lives will be forfeit. And Ecko - you and I have spoken of this already. You are marked, all of you, and will make very poor spies.” The second moon was rising, a yellow smudge behind low cloud. In the high room, the air glittered with a faint and gilded highlight. “For you, I have perhaps a different task.”

  Ecko snorted, “Chrissakes, here we go...”

  But Nivrotar cut straight over him. “I need you to tell me of the alchemist you visited. Of the House of Sarkhyn.”

  There was an odd weight in her voice, an edge to her question that brought quiet to the tower room. Amethea and Triqueta exchanged a glance.

  Redlock crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at them. “Been having adventures?” he asked.

  Ecko shrugged, said, “The House of Sarky’s toast.”

  The Lord of Amos leaned back on the deep sill of the window, the moonlight making her hair shine.

  “Sarkhyn was my friend, Ecko. Once. She was a woman of true vision, a creator.”

  “That’s one vision we’ll all be havin’ for years.” Ecko didn’t sound particularly contrite. “But hey, it’s not like she didn’t leave a legacy.” He was fidgeting now, restless and tense, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Amethea watched him, intrigued.

  Nivrotar was still speaking. “Her legacy was her lore. She believed that alchemy, like elementalism, is divisible into light and darkness, fire and cold. Fire alchemy we understand.” Her eyes held Ecko’s. “But the others? Can dark alchemy animate the dead, can cold preserve life? I had hoped you would find me information, maybe weapons. Something with which I can equip our new army.”