Ecko Burning

by Danie Ware

  “Weapons.” With a certain air of triumph, Ecko opened his hand. “Like this one?”

  “Saint and Goddess!” Amethea gawked and pointed. “You’ve got brimstone!”

  * * *

  Something in Amethea’s tone caught Ecko’s attention, arrested it like a high-street cop.

  Brimstone.

  She stared at his treasure, glittering in the moonlight like crystallised piss.

  “Where did you...? You didn’t find that in the crafthall?”

  Ecko snorted. “Now, that’s just dumb.”

  Amethea said, “I used... Vilsara used it for treating the skin, but we almost never saw the stuff. It comes from the Yevar, somewhere. It’s incredibly rare.”

  There was a puzzled pause, broken only by the sound of Nivrotar’s fingers, rapping a restless tattoo on the wall behind her. The noise was tense, as if she were waiting, or thinking, or scheming.

  “So,” Ecko said, his voice soft with anticipation, “I gotta ask a question. I’ve looked, an’ there’s none of this stuff in your markets. Where do I get more?”

  “Ecko.” Redlock’s alarm was tangible. “What’re you doing?” The Lord watched them intently, her sleek body tight with anticipation. But Ecko no longer cared. He was almost cackling; almost letting his sudden rush of eager, dark glee spill out through his voice, saturate the tower room like oil. He turned back to the apothecary, almost not wanting to hope. “Sing it, sister, where do I get more?”

  “Just wait,” Triq said. “What is that? What do you want it for?”

  “Let her answer.” Nivrotar held up a white hand.

  His blood alight with elation, with incredulity, with coiling tails of lust, and anticipation, Ecko stood poised and breathless. This tiny piece of crystal was his catalyst - and he’d found it right there in the crafthall, right there under his goddamned nose. A tiny scrap of potential, a miracle, a rarity...

  His victory. His route out.

  Oh, you just fucking wait!

  Unable to control his exhilaration, he began to laugh.

  It wasn’t his usual twisted cackle, his cynical snort. This time he was really laughing, a grotesque writhing cold sound that wound out through the open window and up into the moonlit sky.

  They turned to stare like he was fucking demented.

  Yeah? Well maybe you gotta reason.

  Amethea said, “Ecko?”

  Nivrotar said softly, “Answer him, little priestess.”

  Answer him.

  “See this?” He held the crystal up between thumb and forefinger, a citrine gleam, an eye of yellow. Moonlight refracted on his skin and the mottle of colours shifted in response. They gaped, unnerved, as if wondering what the hell he was gonna do next.

  Yeah, he’d got them like he’d got Maugrim’s fucking pocket watch.

  The comparison made him grin like the broken edge of his sanity.

  “This,” he said, his rasp soft and absolutely evil, “is a key. It’s a magic goddamned stone. And if you’ve got a decent alchemist, an’ enough of this shit, it’s the only fucking weapon you’ll need.” He turned the tiny stone to tiny yellow glints along its surface. “Now. Where. The hell. Does it come from? The name of the trader, the source, the market, the roadway it came down; the volcano, the salt deposit, the damned science museum gift store. Where do I get more sulphur?”

  Amethea stuttered, said, “It’s brimstone, you powder it. It comes from the Yevar, I think, from the Taes - the open-mouth mountains to the south. I don’t know who brings it north, but I know... I think I know... where Vilsara found it. Sometimes.” She was hesitant, awkward, as though she was hiding something. Ecko had to control the urge to pounce on her and shake her until she spat it out. “She kind of... didn’t ask too many questions.”

  His laughter ghosted down the corridor. “Why? What is this shit? Contraband?”

  “I don’t know - like I said. It’s just incredibly rare.”

  “Rare,” Nivrotar commented slyly, “or controlled.” Her smile was like the edge of an axe.

  Oh, now I’ve fuckin’ gotcha...

  He was grinning like he’d split at the ears.

  “Spill it, sister - what’s the deal here? You dabblin’ in illegal pharms now?” He cackled. “Starting to see you in a whole new - guess it’s a whole new darkness.”

  Triqueta said, “How is this stuff supposed to help us against Phylos?”

  “This is sulphur, so-called because it burns. You wanna beat your bad guys? Spank the daemon? Win the fucking final war?” It was pure fucking genius. “I say you are the bad guys. And you fight fire with fire.”

  Now, the Lord of Amos was chuckling, a sound deep and rich and dirty.

  Oh yeah - we’re gettin’ somewhere!

  The pieces were falling into place. The yellow moonlight spread across the roof garden, lighting the maze to crosshatched angles of madness. He was getting the hang of how this shit worked, and how he could break out of it.

  Fight fire with fire.

  Triq lowered her gaze.

  Amethea said, “Fire? I had no idea. All this time...”

  “It’s black market meds, Doc. You track it down; I’ll blow it up.”

  Redlock said, “You do know what you’re doing with this stuff?”

  Ecko grinned like a nightmare. “Trust me.”

  * * *

  Much later that night, movement outside caught the Lord’s eye.

  From the tower opposite her own, there came a sudden clattering, a rise of voices, outraged and angry. The rocklight was uncovered - illumination spilled from the unshuttered window - and she heard Jayr, heard the abrupt, stark crash of violence.

  She moved to the window, intrigued - and with a glimmer of tension.

  It was too far to perceive clearly. Jayr’s heavy shoulders filled most of the light - though it was apparent that something had happened to Ress. To Ress.

  Without looking away, the Lord rang swiftly for a servitor.

  The voices continued - the strident anger was Jayr, the softer tone Jemara. As Nivrotar was trying to see, to listen, a flurry of waterbirds took to the air, cackling.

  She stifled frustration. When they’d passed, the whir of wings taking them inland, she discerned a third voice, neither male nor female. It brought a flush to her face and a chill to her very bones - it was a voice she was sure she knew.

  It was Ress.

  And yet.

  Her white hands tensed on the deep stone of the sill. She’d never heard him speak like that. His voice was massive, multilayered, as though something else were using his throat for utterance, some vast power that had dwelled within him and was now manifest.

  And it was angry.

  She could hear Jayr, striving to calm him down. Jemara, the palace leech, sounded afraid.

  Then there was a scuffling. Jayr’s shoulders were gone from the light. The shape that replaced them was Jemara, round and shrinking back - terrified of something in the room.

  Of Ress?

  Nivrotar heard his voice again, heard a grief so huge that it made the entire night ring. It echoed out over the still city as if the very world herself were sobbing with failure.

  The Lord stood frozen, uncomprehending, barely daring to breathe.

  Jayr shouted again, an edge of desperation in her voice. Nivrotar saw Jemara shrink back, saw what she thought was her hands go to the sides of her head.

  And she keened. A high sound of pure and absolute agony. A sound that sliced clean through the fabric of the night like a thought-sharp metal blade.

  The gentle knock on the door behind her nearly made the Lord leap from the window. She paused, trying to still the pounding of her heart - but couldn’t tear her attention from the light in the opposite tower.

  Ress had fallen silent, but the huge presence had not faded - if anything, it was stronger. It was larger than the city below, larger than the night above, larger than the white moon that cast his light across the world.

  The knock came again.
She ignored it.

  Jayr’s voice was now almost a shout. It seemed to echo like ripples under the weight of that presence, under the something that was happening across the night’s gap.

  Jemara’s keening shattered into broken fragments. “No,” she seemed to be saying, “No, please don’t, no...”

  The knock came a third time. The Lord tore herself from the windowsill and, with short shrift, flung open the door.

  “Come with me,” she said.

  Her grey shroud billowing about her as though she were the Count of Time himself, she was out past the lad and heading for the sharp angles of the descending stairs. Behind her, the last of the broken keen was fading into a gasp, a plea, into the sound of Jayr’s voice, angry and horrified.

  Then even that was gone and the Lord was at the bottom of the steps, throwing open the door to run across the front of the building like a hurrying girl.

  As she did so, the huge presence, whatever it was, whatever it had been, was fading like Jemara’s final cries.

  Lifting her grey cloak into an undignified bundle, the Lord of Amos ran up the opposite staircase.

  But she knew full well that she was far too late.

  INTERLUDE: UNINVITED GUEST LONDON

  For just a moment, Roderick of Avesyr had felt that empty, stomach-lifting sensation of falling.

  And then -

  The sickening jolt. His belly in his throat and his blood in his ears. Sparks shooting through his thoughts, blinding and baffling him -

  The room folded in on itself. His legs crumpled. He clung to the table, felt it slide. Long used to The Wanderer’s movements, he wasn’t ready for the soul-ripping wrench that tore them from the heart of the Varchinde, from everything they understood...

  There was screaming, shrill and high - Karine? Silfe? There was an odd, hollow howling, a scrabble like the last denial of the end of the world. There was the stern bellow of Sera, roll-calling names. There was a snap, like a breaking bone. The Bard lost the table, found himself on the floor, sprawling where it had come up and kicked him. He could hear voices, the harsh pound of feet, the blare of some kind of alarum.

  As he scrambled up, fighting to hold his belly in place, his shaking knees still, a harsh, cold light sliced through the windows of the taproom. It cut squares into the floor and made glitter of the tumbling dust.

  Roderick raised his forearm to shield his eyes.

  What?

  The room stilled. He turned, looking for the rest of his team.

  Silfe was there, sitting on the floor with her hands in her hair, her face drawn and pale. Karine was over her, picking her up, telling her that it was okay, it was okay.

  The words were reflex. Like the light, they made no sense.

  “Are you all right?” Sera was close, like a wall, his hands cool and strong. His strength was enough, and the Bard was able to stand straight, to find his voice.

  “I’ll manage, help the others.” He shook his head, realised that the odd, hollow howling was fading, changing note...

  Even as he tried to locate it, it was gone.

  Kale? Where -?

  He turned, looking for answers, something. The quiet was swollen with possibilities, with threat.

  And then a heavy boot smashed in his front doors.

  It all happened in a heartbeat, in the space between one world and another.

  His blood was pounding, choking - he realised he was already moving, instinctual and compelled, straight for the doorway. Sera was with him. Karine was on her feet, her fists clenched. Silfe was gasping, pushing herself back, her horror sucking all the air from the room...

  The white light was a square of jagged unreality on the floor.

  And there was a shadow in it.

  “On the ground, hands on your heads! Now!” The owner of shadow and boot was a heavy-set warrior, his unfamiliar garments pure white. He was crouched behind a two-handed weapon, holding it to his eye and moving cautiously into the room. “I said now!”

  A tiny red dot like a blood-drinking insect flitted from face to face.

  Sera stood like a rock, implacable. “Put the weapon down.”

  The red dot stopped on the doorman’s chest.

  Behind the warrior came a woman, her garments similar and her hair shining like white-metal. Her eyes were covered by a strip of reflection and she, too, bore an odd hand-weapon and an attitude of naked aggression. She grinned at their shock -casual in stance, unhinged in expression.

  Sera said, “Both of you. Put the weapons down. Now.”

  The warrior gave a faint shrug, a slight ducking of his head...

  ...and the world exploded.

  Deafening noise and splintering furniture; detonations of alchemical burning that assaulted nostrils, that billowed dust and sudden thumping terror. The metal-reek of blood, the crash of a shattered table, a body hitting the floor.

  A high, single shriek, like crystallised horror.

  Sera!

  Roderick was moving, but not fast enough, not fast enough. Karine was already running to where Sera had half-spun to the floor, one shoulder punched clean through as if by some giant bradawl. Flesh and gore had burst from the back of the wound. Silfe had her hands over her face, buried in her hair; she was screaming, screaming, rocking back and forth. The shrill sound shredded the air and nerves.

  Over and over, like eternally shattering glass.

  “Christ, shut up, you bitch.” The man turned, the weapon detonated again and Silfe was falling, the screaming torn down, the back of her head completely gone.

  Gone.

  Roderick stared. The Count of Time slowed to a tumble of absolute impossibility.

  Gone.

  Silfe’s expression was one of shock, her eyes were open and her lips still parted on that final scream. She fell, with exquisite slowness, through the Bard’s disbelief, her head falling back and her hair flying wide, a pale glow about her face. She fell backwards as if through a fog, through a thickening of the air, through a rising, heart-pounding cry of denial.

  That last scream echoed from the walls.

  Gone.

  The Count of Time had left him. The Bard wanted, needed, to move, but the thick air held him like mud, like dismay, like incredulity. He’d no understanding of what he’d just seen.

  Gone.

  It was too much.

  All of this. Too much.

  As he watched the girl fall, his mind, stupidly, spun old memories. Down through the returns, the tavern had manifested in many places, in cities outside the Varchinde, in poverty and desolation and desperation, in the halls of the Kartian CraftMasters, in the semi-mythical ruins of the Kuanne. Many times, they’d been met with superstition and confusion, with outright violence.

  But this? This broken brightness, this stinking air. They were lost to lore and a world from where they should be... How could they face this assault? Face death at the flinch of a finger, face traumatised people even more damned scared than they were?

  Gone.

  Karine’s voice slammed into him; her words hit him like fists. She was shielding Sera, shouting incomprehensible words one after another, a raw torrent of fury and hurt. Roderick staggered, found he could move, breathe. He’d grabbed the end of the blaster and tried to take it before realising the heat of it had blistered his hand.

  He heard his own voice. “Get out. Or I’ll tear you to pieces.” It was lethal, as sharp as a fibre across an exposed throat.

  Then he felt the kiss of cold metal as the mouth of the woman’s weapon caressed his cheek. Her other hand cupped his buttock.

  She smiled at him. “Not before I spread your pretty face up the wall.”

  “Awright, enough! Strafe, ’Eels, what the ’ell is goin’ on?”

  The bellow brought quiet. The two warriors stepped back, but they exchanged a look that chilled the Bard to the core. It reminded him of Ecko, somehow, of something that was no longer human - something that didn’t care...

  Another figure cast a shadow i
n the doorway.

  Tall as the Bard, Archipelagan in build, Banned in attitude. This man wore leather, battered and black, and his eyes flickered with a faint, fire-spark blue. With the harsh white light behind him, his face was hard to make out - but the shaven head, the blonde beard, the ink that decorated the skin of his forearms...

  Suddenly, everything snapped into place.

  It was real, it was all real.

  Grief and shock and tension surged in the Bard’s blood, making him stare, stare again.

  Dear Gods.

  “I’m Ade Eastermann,” the man said. “Me mates call me Lugan.” He looked the Bard up and down for a moment, then punched a huge, inked fist into the doorframe as if to assure himself of its solidity. “And you can’t park this ’ere.”

  * * *

  Jesus Hairy Christ on a fucking motor scooter.

  Lugan stood in the front garden of a quasi-medieval pub that had just beamed-the-fuck-down-Scotty in the middle of his chop shop.

  Its landlord was some mock-goth long-hair with a taste for high boots and loose sleeves, all now blood-slicked from a fucked-up first contact. The only other still-moving person was a woman, crouched on the floor over her injured mate - fuck’s sake, one dead and one terminally wounded was not how this shit was supposed to go down.

  Lugan had access to some kickarse meditech. But not yet.

  Right now, this was just too batshit.

  Strafe and Heels, the unhinged twins, had been banished back to the office. In the bar-room, Lugan’s ocular scanners were showing him body heat but not much else. His brain tried to rationalise an explanation out of 3D printing or holographic projection, but he kept getting distracted by the pub sign.

  It depicted the legend, “The Wanderer”.

  Well no fucking shit.

  Fuller rattled in his ear: Density scan confirms: timber-framed, stone foundations. It’s not showing on the National Grid, hasn’t accessed our data, power, plumbing or sewage. Whatever it is, it’s a self-contained entity. Furball’s prepping the scan.