Ecko Endgame

by Danie Ware

  Faith.

  She swallowed, bit the inside of her mouth; if he saw it, the old priest said nothing. Instead, he put down his pail and stretched his back with a pop and a grimace.

  “Your Reverence indeed. I’m far too old to be doing this myself. I really should have minions or something.” He winked, wicked and infectious.

  Unable to face his clean humour, she looked at her own hands, stained with worse things than soil, and searched for something to say.

  But then she remembered what she had to hide behind, and said, “I bear a message for you.”

  Above her, the empty window glimmered, mocking. Maugrim was loud now, striving to make himself heard. His words piled one upon another, all of them clamouring at her, laughing. But she couldn’t face them, couldn’t admit her own part in what had happened.

  What had the Bard said? Maugrim had power and passion – elemental focus that brought the Powerflux from somnolence and legend – but the love and courage were yours.

  Bitterly, she fought the clamour down, but it was too late and the truth leered at her, its teeth bared and bloody.

  The truth: that the hole in the world had been partially her fault.

  Faith.

  Purpose.

  Or absolution?

  Gorinel though, had followed her gaze to the window. He said, “I don’t know why that one’s empty. Like Xenok’s, our records are long-rotted, unreadable, but we still remember some Gods – Samiel, the moons.” His back clicked again and he winced. “In a world with no memory, they’ve become less than legend, more like comforters. It makes what we do… a social necessity, more practical than political, but I’m sure you know that.” He grinned, went to sit on the edge of his pail and then thought better of it, standing back up with another clunk. “Seeing the Gods is easy – if you wish for comfort, you can see them in the birth of the sun, in the beauty of the world, or in her pain. Moments of passion touch us all. But sustaining their presence, without knowing their names?” He looked at the windows. “That’s a different beast entirely.”

  Sustaining.

  Amethea felt herself reddening. He was answering the question she hadn’t asked and she heard him with her entire skin, her whole being. It frightened her like truth.

  The fat man chuckled. “Ah, Amethea. How can we trust in Gods with no names? Deities we’ve forgotten? We learn to sustain ourselves, and to help others to do likewise. They,” he waved a work-callused hand, “won’t do it for us – they don’t grant our wishes, or absolve us of our misdeeds. They won’t manifest at our command. You’re an apothecary, you were taught this as a ’prentice. Falling to your knees and pleading for Samiel to save a life is one thing – but the dying man beside you needs you to stop his bleeding.” He raised an eyebrow; his smile was like soft fabric over old rock. “You are the one that saves his life. Your faith – and his – can be found in action.”

  Action.

  Amethea said, her voice faintly bitter, “The Gods help those who help themselves?”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Gorinel said, shrugging. “I don’t have the Gods in my pockets, or in my windows, and I can’t parade them for you. But here, sit on my pail – and perhaps I can answer the question you’ve not asked me.”

  * * *

  Holy shit, holy shit, holy…

  Ecko spun his telos to a wider focus, now watching the site as a whole. And as he did so, he realised something, something that had been bothering him in the empty streets of the lower city, that’d tickled tentacles at the back of his neck like some lurking Lovecraftian horror…

  Almost one third of the army camp was made up of bedrolls scattered almost randomly across the cold ground. They had no tents, no kitchens – they were just huddled bundles of desperation and poverty and garbage that slept near the faint glimmers of the fires. Almost one whole third of Ythalla’s force was made up of the city’s homeless, the people who’d had nowhere else to go.

  He stared.

  That was why the streets were empty – Fhaveon’s population had abandoned her, and they’d come here. Pulled by Christ-alone-knew-fucking-what. Cannon fodder, Ecko had said mockingly to Rhan – but even then, there were too many of them. Why the hell would any force need this many untrained troops?

  Holy shit…

  For no reason he could name, his blood ran cold. Like he’d stuck his head under some fucking broken shower. He couldn’t get goosebumps, but he fought down the urge to rub them away anyhow.

  Holy…

  Below him, he could hear the Bard’s rubber-soled boots shifting on the pieces of shell. Gawky fucker. Like he could see this far.

  Carefully, mindful of the clumsy wool cloak, Ecko slipped into the hollow tower itself and through to its other side. He crouched low in the archway. Sticks and shit were everywhere, but just for a moment, his gargoyle grin was entirely deliberate.

  And he was just that much closer.

  He focused his telos again, watching the bedrolls, trying to work out what was freaking him out so much.

  Come on, you fucking bitch, let’s see what you really got goin’ on…

  Eliza, Ythalla.

  Whatever.

  As the clouds parted to reveal a piss-bright glimmer of yellow, so Ecko’s telos slowly explored the civilian encampment, length by length. He was trembling with impatience, with the effort of holding himself in place – he needed to go down there, to steal though the bedrolls themselves, to get a real feel for whatever the fuck was going on – but he was sans his decent kit and just didn’t dare risk it. And if the Bard came galumphing after him…

  Yeah, that’s my excuse an’ I’m stickin’ to it. Sue me.

  Fucksake, they’d both be roasting over a slow fire while Ythalla shoved things in places not designed for the task. And that was so not how this was gonna go down.

  Holy sh—

  Shut up, asshole!

  Ecko stopped himself, annoyed. His heart was thundering, his adrenaline roaring in his ears. He’d cut his hand on a piece of shell and hadn’t realised it; his skin was split and bleeding. Sucking at the wound, he focused his telos here, there – on the centaurs stretching their human and animal limbs, on the things with the human faces like the one that’d accosted him in Aeona, on the controlling vialer, now walking among the bedrolls themselves.

  Across the clear night, he could hear them shouting.

  As the sleeping population began to stir, Ecko fine-tuned his telos as far as they would go, looked from waking face to waking face, seeing desperation, need, seeing the new blaze of hope…

  And seeing one more thing, the thing that curled him with a horror he’d never before experienced. His mouthful of his own blood nearly made him sick.

  Not one of the faces was over thirty.

  And almost a third of them were children.

  * * *

  “Once,” Gorinel said, “there was only Kazyen, the void, timeless and dreamless and alone. Into that void there came the first mother – and so it knew life and movement, and so began the Count of Time. The first mother bore Time children – Gods whose names and roles we’ve long lost, forgotten to lore and mythology both.”

  Sat on her bucket, Amethea was looking round at the windows, one at a time, a chill shivering her spine. “The days of the halfcycle…”

  “A great irony,” Gorinel said. “So much lore lost – names of Gods, the beginning of the Count of Time itself. Yet pieces, we remember – Samiel was one of those children, and he sired twins. The Gods crafted a plaything for them from their own flesh, a toy that shone with light and laughter. In wonder, the children took to the skies of this plaything, circling and admiring – but as they grew older, so their eyes became consumed, not with the toy below, but with each other.”

  Amethea said, almost a whisper, “I know this, know this – they had such beauty that they had no control; they became lovers in breach of all that Samiel had taught. And Samiel condemned them to fly the skies always – unable to touch, faces turni
ng toward each other and then turning away. But the world…?”

  “Is a toy – crafted for the children. Such a little thing.” His smile was gentle. “But remember, like any child’s favourite toy, they have never parted with it, and it holds a place in their hearts still – a place that may yet surprise you. Put your shoulder to the wheel, Amethea, and know that you are not abandoned.”

  His tone was gentle, his expression quiet. But there was stone in the old man’s voice, a strength to match his girth. Not quite sure why, she held out a hand to him, asking for a blessing that she had no words to frame.

  Faith.

  Purpose.

  Put your shoulder to the wheel.

  When the old man took her hand in both of his, she found that she was shaking, but that she had the strength to look up at him. Something in her heart had shattered and was now settling, and she wasn’t even sure what it had been.

  “I’ll try,” she said. “I can only promise that much – I’ll try.”

  “And that’s all we can ever ask,” he said, patting her hand and letting her go. “Now. What can I do for you?”

  “I came to give you this,” she said. She held out to him a white feather. “And to ask for your help.”

  CHAPTER 10: MUSTER

  FHAVEON

  Ecko and Roderick left Ythalla’s camp as if the monsters would uncurl and come after them, as if every generation of Amal’s crafted nightmares would coalesce in the cold winter dawn, slavering for victory. Gathering his cloak hem like some shrieking girlie, Ecko lost dignity and cynicism both, and he just fucking legged it. His feet ran to a silent tattoo, as if they recalled his earlier thoughts: It could’ve been worse. Jeez, it could’ve been so much fucking worse. If we hadn’t’ve kicked Maugrim’s ass, if we hadn’t’ve fucked up Amal…

  Somehow, though, the plus side had packed its bags and caught the first flight outta there. Whatever his thoughts were trying to tell him, he reckoned the whole city was up a very shitty creek indeed.

  Around them, the streets and buildings were all but empty – where were the adults, for chrissakes? – and Ecko didn’t bother fucking about with rooftops. Silent as horror, he kept pace with the long legs of the Bard, running through the cold like a shadow.

  Running like Ythalla’s entire army were off the leash and after them, torches and pitchforks and all.

  Chrissakes.

  As they skidded round a corner and began to head upwards, away from the outskirts, it occurred to him to wonder why the force was just sat there with its thumb up its collective asshole. Hell, that lot could rise up and trash the place any time they wanted. What were they waiting for?

  But he had a nasty feeling he knew the answer to that one already.

  Nivrotar had been right.

  The Kas. The Kas were coming.

  And then all the merry Rhez would break loose.

  They ran.

  Around them, the buildings were silent, sagging, broken, their black eyes empty, their rocklights dimmed. Street stalls were overturned and picked clean; there were jagged great holes in the walls where things had torn out of them. Critters scuttled in moon shadows; scavengers slunk with low shoulders and bared teeth.

  Some fucking fantasy utopia this was: garbage and corpses and stink, oh my. Oz hadn’t only fallen, it’d been kicked to shit and pieces. The Yellow Brick Road had been torn up and the bricks were down there, right now, with eyes and claws and fucking teeth. How’d it go again? There’s no place like…

  But the word “home” caused an odd pang – it was somehow nebulous, and he veered away from it like a body in the road.

  Running beside him, apparently oblivious to their surroundings, the Bard was muttering to himself. The thrum of his throat seemed to make the abandoned buildings shiver – yep, this time, he’d really fucking lost it.

  Ecko wanted to rail – this whole thing was batshit. It wasn’t fair. Here he was, in a world of fucking wet-eared novices, now facing the inevitable World-Ending War… Yeah, I asked for it, I know. They were outnumbered, outmanoeuvred, outmonstered. Outflanked. They didn’t even have metal weapons, for fucksake. Score fifty points and a cookie for one superhero who could presumably blast lightning out his asshole and nostrils, but he was only one and the other side had all his brothers.

  And pitched battles? Tic-tacs and strategy? Military shit? These guys knew less about this stuff than he did. What army they had was in pieces. They were so gonna get their asses handed to them on a fucking polished plate.

  And then what? If they didn’t win the war, would that mean he’d failed after all? After he’d capitulated and everything?

  Fucksake. In the rhythm of the Bard’s feet, he could hear Eliza laughing at him, echoes of nightmare.

  Whatever! Stack the fucking odds, why don’tcha? I’m gonna kick your smug ass, you bitch. I’m Sir fuckin’ Boss an’ I’m so gonna do this. You wait an’ see!

  They ran on, breath pluming. The Bard’s muttering grew louder.

  Dude was a certifiable loony.

  Over them, the sky was paling now, starless and grey. The air was crisp and bitterly cold. Frost glittered, slicking the roadway underfoot. Despite the dawn of the dead feel to the empty streets, Ecko could hear birdsong.

  Wacky.

  As long fingers of cold sunlight began to steal across the broken stone, they at last came to a small square. Like many others, the fountain here stood stagnant. The crystal trees had been hacked down and their stumps burned – flakes and ash still blew in the dawn wind. But here Roderick stopped, turned. He’d pulled the scarf from his mouth and throat, and now revealed the snake nest of warmth and steel and carbon fibre that his voice box had become.

  “You ready for this?” His voice was velvet and gravel, taint and taunt and temptation. Wondering what the fuck he was about to do, Ecko stayed exactly where he was and let the cloak cover him.

  Chuckling at his reaction, the Bard walked out towards the silent fountain, kicking at the last of the fire as he passed. His black Converse brought sparks from the embers.

  Ecko got the impression he was grinning. He flicked his scanners warily, and wondered just what kinda dragon he was gonna sing down from the clouds…

  You ready for this?

  Roderick turned, leaned on the fountain’s edge. He began again the strange rhythmic mutter, a bass thrum that seemed to reverberate from the stone, from the square itself, from the surrounding buildings. His voice was soft and dark, but something about it was undeniable, the touch of the tip of a blade. The steam that came from his breath curled upwards into the morning; Ecko half-expected it to make pictures.

  You ready for this?

  The Bard lifted his chin. Over him, a line of birds was perched on one of the semi-lethal washing lines; as Ecko glanced up, they rose and whirled and settled again. Their song was clear now, a counterpoint to the Bard’s mutter – it was painfully pure, liquid and crystal.

  And then he realised that the song was not coming from the birds.

  Oh you’re kiddin’ me…

  The Bard’s throat was aglow, of course it was. Warm, warmer. Ecko’s telescopics could see it: the steel cords in his neck were moving, swelling, each cable oiling round its fellows in some sensual and sinister writhe. From his mouth and ears and lungs came a sound of wonder and opal and sunlight, a sound of pure glass and singing steel, a sound that made Ecko stand and gawp like he’d scored front row tickets to a BiFrost gig.

  There was no way that sound, both those sounds, could come from a human throat.

  Mom? What the hell did you do?

  Bass-thrum and glass-shard music swelled slowly in volume. Despite the sound’s sweetness, its painful clarity, something in Ecko shivered – it jagged at his nerves like the old fingernails-down-a-blackboard trick. It was pure power, some ma-hu-sive engine that was just turning over, warming the fuck up. He wondered what the hell would happen if the Bard put his foot to the floor… Then slapped himself round the head and fought to think through the
onslaught of noise…

  What the hell was the fuckwit actually doing? Summoning something?

  Oh, this so wasn’t gonna end well.

  His nerves itched. His ears popped. He wanted to put his fingers in them and shut out the song, the bass, the lure, the call, the morning, the whatever the hell it was supposed to be.

  Then he saw…

  The other side of the square, there was a figure in a doorway – an older man, greying and slightly scared. He was glancing back and forward, then leaning inside to speak to someone Ecko couldn’t see. As the Bard saw him, he raised his volume – only a little – and the pure song curled into the paling dawn, sent tendrils of sound across the openness.

  No fucking way.

  The man took a pack from a woman behind him, helped her through the half-barricaded door, and slung the pack on his shoulder.

  They came across the square to the Bard, picking their way carefully through the debris.

  Jesus fuck, you’re the fucking Pie-Eyed Piper now?

  Ecko rubbed his shoulders, chilled to the core.

  He’d no clue why he hadn’t seen this – realised this – before. The man was supposed to be a bard, for chrissakes, a bard with no memory, and Ecko’d heard him play instruments in The Wanderer. The music thing had been inherent all along. So, was this what’d been lurking below the surface of that slightly feckless, starry-eyed idealist? Was this what Mom’d brought out of him?

  Wasn’t that what Mom did – grant your greatest potential, at the cost of your…?

  Oh no you fucking don’t.

  Like “home”, “soul” was another nebulous, bullshit word he wanted nothing to do with. He stopped himself, administered another mental slap. It was all crap anyhow, all this sentiment and whimsy – and why the hell was he wasting his time…

  For just a moment, there in the char-mark in the square, Ecko saw a ghost – a thin kid, pale-skinned and red-haired, a loner in his room with his imagination and his games. A kid rejected by his parents, picked on by his younger half sisters, a kid whose viciousness and anger were the barriers he’d built to keep people away from him – but a kid who’d craved attention nonetheless.