by Danie Ware
A kid with a lighter in his hand.
Ecko stopped, his fists clenched as if he could pummel the image physically out of his brain, pound that bit of the program away, stomp it to pieces. What was Eliza doing, looping him now? Haunting him with his past? Yeah you go for it, you fucking clever bitch. He might’ve agreed to kick the bad guys’ butts, for chrissakes, but now she was taking the piss with her poor-Ecko-he-was-bullied-as-a-child fucking flashbacks…
What’s this now? Cognitive therapy? Childhood issues?
Get a fucking grip, for chrissakes!
The Bard’s song dropped in note, a minor key change that sent further shivers through the crisp, cold morning. The sunlight was swelling now, and Ecko shook himself, looked back across the square. Behind the greybeard, there were others, shadows lingering. They came forwards slowly, like some shambling zombie horde…
No, not quite. Their movements were cautious, curious – but they were coming because they wanted to. Needed to. Whatever that song was, it wasn’t simply summoning them to a brainless follow – hey, now who’s racking cannon fodder? – it was some sorta call.
Ecko shook his head, trying to get the sound out of his ears. However pure the Bard’s vocals, he could still hear that bass-thrum undertone, and it just sounded like Mom.
Like being flayed alive.
Like having your throat torn out.
Down there in the dark.
Shuddering, he was on the verge of going over there to shut him the hell up already, when he realised the song had stopped – and that the Bard was surrounded by a group of some twenty slightly wide-eyed people, all of them glancing about them, at him and at one another.
Ecko slipped forwards, cloak covering him, until he could see clearly.
The Bard put his hood back, to a ripple of gasps.
And they knew him; of course they knew him. The Wanderer was legend – one of those bucket list thingies that everyone’d probably wanted to do at least once. A whisper of bemusement rose from the small crowd, and a whisper of hope. One of them called out, “Where is it? Where’s the tavern?” and the others took up the cry – need and desperation. Like they wanted the amazing teleporting cab ride to get them the hell outta there – and who could blame them?
“Fhae, Jharath.” Roderick greeted the people by name. “The Wanderer, like Fhaveon, is no more.” Cries answered him, and for a moment he lowered his face, raised his hands as if to hold them back. Ecko could see his expression was clouded, a look that almost resembled out-of-his-depth panic – like he had all these fantastic new toys, but no real idea how to use them, or what they did.
Another memory flash – the streets and rooftops of London, like some fucking newborn superhero, all klutz-like because the radioactivity had just kicked in and he didn’t know what his super-powers did yet…
The Bard raised his jaw and his face was cold, carved in determination. As the people pressed closer, demanding that he save them, he raised his hands again. He was searching for the trigger, the on-switch, for the whatever-the-hell was supposed to conjure the vocal magick…
But the people were close now; curiosity was shifting to aggravation, aggression. Ecko knew enough about crowds to feel the mood change. One last look at the Bard, and he realised they had a mini-mob on their hands who were about to take out every bit of frustration—
“Where’s the tavern?”
“Why can’t you tell us?”
“What the rhez is going on?”
“Where the hell d’you think it is?” The savage rasp of Ecko’s question cut the morning like a serrated blade. People spun, hands going for belt-blades. “Chrissakes, Phylos tore it down, stone by stone, brick by brick, Yth-whatserface blew the shit out of it. Does it matter?” His challenge – such a contrast to the molasses charm of Roderick’s tone – slapped the crowd into wakefulness and they glanced at one another, unsure. “Chrissakes, the tavern’s a goner, an’ unless you lot listen the fuck up, you’re gonna go straight after it. Remember all those beasties? Runnin’ round, tearing the heads off of your mates? Well they like it here so much, they’re comin’ straight the fuck back – so you lot get your shit together if you wanna keep your assholes intact.”
The comment was pointed – and not at the crowd.
He felt, rather than saw, the Bard shake himself, stand taller. His eyes caught Ecko’s, just for a moment, with a flash of humour – like the man he had been.
Then he started to speak.
His voice was as layered as his throat, a wealth of richness and influence and subtlety that Ecko’s ears couldn’t even hear. It compelled and fascinated him, it made him strain to hear more – even as his own brain berated him for being an asshole.
What the Bard even said Ecko couldn’t afterwards remember, but he could remember the paean, the call, the ray of hope that slanted through the city’s streets like the long gleam of the rising sun. He could remember that more people came, and that more people came. He could remember that the Bard was like fucking Santa Claus or something – he knew them all, every one by name. And then they walked, speaking and singing and calling to one another, in something that wasn’t exactly a procession and wasn’t exactly a march, but seemed to be somewhere between the two. And twenty became forty, and forty became eighty, and eighty became a crowd, a flood of people from the broken city, all following as the Bard’s voice led. Some of them were soldiers, he thought, or freemen, bearing their arms with them. They moved upwards along the ruin of the great zigzagging road, more people emerging to join the song that called to them.
Even Ecko himself, his own bitterness buried far, far too deep for him to ever access consciously, found tears in his eyes as the song hit a sudden, powerful rhythm. The people were all singing together, a courage and defiance like nothing he’d ever heard. He bit his lip, furious with himself – what the fucking hell was happening to him? – but the Bard showed no emotion, only the pure call of the song that led them, roadway by roadway, all the way to Amethea and the high walls of the Great Cathedral, to the last of the crates being loaded through its doors.
It was their last refuge – the only safety the city could offer them.
* * *
Banked for the night, the fire had dwindled to a wine-red glow.
His pale skin smouldering sullen in the half-light, Rhan looked at his companions. Both wore clouded expressions.
“You’ll stand with me on this,” he said, arms folded.
Neither warrior nor scribe looked up.
In Garland House’s huge kitchen, the air was chill with the early dawn. Rhan had left the chair that Phylos had placed by the fireside, though more for potential firewood than as a place to sit. To one side of the huge stone setting, Mael stood cleaning his glasses, a dark and troubled wraith in the poor light. He didn’t meet Rhan’s eyes. To the other was Mostak. He glanced up sharply, his gaze flickering scarlet.
“If you’re wrong, Seneschal, then I’ll have your head.” The warrior’s voice held blades.
“If I’m wrong, Commander,” Rhan said, “I’ll give it to you.” In response to the threat, his honesty was savage.
Mostak’s foot tapped a sceptical tattoo, more eloquent than any vocal response.
Rhan watched him, trying to measure what the man was thinking. He realised so much of this rested on the shoulders of the Tan Commander – on his trust, on his ability to support and carry out the strategy that Nivrotar had proposed.
Mostak snorted, pointed a rigid finger. “I should slit your damned throat now and be done with it. What Amos is suggesting is treachery. Worse.”
Mael nodded, but said nothing. His face flickered with unvoiced fears.
Rhan picked up the white feather that had been laid on the mantel, spun it through his fingers. “Do you trust me?”
“Maybe you did murder my brother, you conniving old bastard. Maybe you are the damned daemon. Maybe you have been all along—”
“Maybe Samiel will manifest in person and we won’t have
to deal with any of this.” Rhan brandished the feather, his sarcasm blistering. “Maybe I’m right – Nivrotar’s right – and we need to do this, whatever the cost.” White softness glowed red in the fading firelight. “Gods know this is crazed beyond words. There is an army on our border. And if Vahl is where I think he is, then we’ve got only one course of action… and it’s against everything I am, everything I was charged to hold, the family I’ve protected, the babes I’ve watched grow – you and your brother among them.” He looked from face to face. “But if we don’t do this, then it’s every head that’ll be lost. Mine. Yours. And Selana’s too. I just hope you live long enough to watch me fully and finally damned.”
He let the feather go, into the smouldering fireplace. It hovered for a moment, the heat bearing it up, then it flashed into vicious flame and was gone.
Watching it, Rhan remembered the little priestess, the girl who had shown him his lifelong selfishness, his refusal to care about the rest of the world.
Survival.
Mostak held his gaze for a long moment, the small man wound tight as terhnwood fibre. His resemblance to his brother was uncanny, unnerving. Rhan willed him silently, Whatever is past, you must trust me.
After a moment, the Commander grunted and turned back to the fire, the gesture somehow approving, but also giving no ground.
Mael said softly, “You know I can’t condone this. She’s become… like my daughter. What you’re suggesting is—”
“You have a better idea, Merchant Master?” Rhan rounded on him, merciless. “Her nights get worse – nightmares live in her skin. You’ve seen this for yourself. Will you tell me I’m wrong?”
“She’s a child, Rhan.” The old man frowned. “You talk of babes – she’s the last of her line, you’re sworn to her protection and she’s never even had her chance. How do you know Vahl’s in there – how do you know he isn’t in me, here, now? Or in the Tan Commander?”
With a faint and humourless chuckle, Rhan touched his fingertips to the old scribe’s arm, felt him shiver. “There’s no touch of Vahl in you, Merchant Master – I’d have known.”
And I’m nothing like my brother.
Mael withdrew his arm like he’d been stung.
“And Mostak? I’m not sure even Vahl would dare.” Rhan’s sharp comment was only half in humour. He looked from one man to the other. “Look, I understand what I’m asking is beyond redemption or reason or forgiveness, but I need you with me, both of you.” He faltered, kept going. “The Bard’s new strength is… outrageous. And before I can lure my brother and his army across the plains, I need to call him out.”
Mostak nodded, though without surrender – he had calculated the odds as a warrior. “I hear you.”
But Mael’s face was lined with sorrow, and he said nothing.
Mostak said, “We’ll need to time this carefully, Seneschal – all of this. Once Vahl is loosed, we’ll need to ensure that he brings that army directly after us – that he doesn’t make side trips.” His voice was vitriol.
“Nivrotar’s right about one thing – he’ll come after me,” Rhan said. “I’ve beaten him once and he’ll want to tear it out of my hide – when he can catch me. We just have to make sure he catches me – us – in the right place.”
“That might be harder than it sounds,” Mael said softly. “We’re deserting the city completely. It means we’ll have no supply lines – we’ll be taking everything we need with us.” He settled his glasses on his nose, rubbed at an old ink stain on a finger. “We’ll be slow.”
“Not that slow,” Rhan said. “Our supply lines can stretch to Amos – they’ll be ahead of us, not behind, and as we get closer, they’ll get stronger. When we arrive, Nivrotar will be waiting for us.”
“One last question,” Mael said. “What about the Cathedral? Are we hoping… what… that Samiel will step in and help?” The old scribe blinked at Rhan in a faintly sarcastic fashion.
“You might be,” Rhan answered him, with a hint of a grin. “Gorinel’s agreed, he’s taking the people, and all the supplies we can spare – he’s got enough down there to stand a siege and those damned catacombs go on ’til the end of the Count of Time. All the way to Swathe, or so I’m told. He’s a practical man, he’ll manage – and he’ll also have help.”
Mael settled his glasses back on his nose and peered through them, his old eyes as sharp as arrow-points. “Help?”
“You’re staying with him, Brother. You’re in no physical shape to be crossing half the Northern Varchinde in an orderly military panic, chased by monsters. You and Amethea both – I need you to stay with the city.”
Mael said nothing; Mostak nodded.
Rhan looked from scribe to warrior.
“Then we agree: let the final war begin.”
PART 2: WAR
11: THE DECISIONS OF LARRED JADE
ROVIARATH
Larred Jade was restless.
Since the fall of the Monument, the Warden of Roviarath had been haunted by the loitering guilt-tails of the things he should have done – things that may have saved the Monument itself, and spared him the yawning canker that swelled upon his border. Anxious, unable to sleep, unwilling to eat, he’d taken to wandering the wide streets of his troubled and overstuffed city, hooded against the eyes of her people.
He watched, and he tried to understand.
Roviarath was a wealthy city – or so she’d always been. With her central location and the Great Fayre wrapped about two-thirds of her wall, her trade had been assured, and her people well fed and comfortable. If her CityWarden was canny, he could watch the rise and fall of her controlling merchants, play them one against another, and ensure that none became too powerful – lest the complex wheels of the trade-cycle unbalance for good.
But that trade-cycle was gone now, kicked to bloody pieces and lost in the winter’s mud. The critical supply of terhnwood had dwindled, the responding loads of wood and stone no longer reached the city’s walls, and the Fayre was a scattered and skeletal ruin, combed clean of debris. The merchants that remained had seen their livelihoods ruined and now they squabbled for pieces, or vanished beneath the seething struggles of their fellows.
Jade needed to know what had happened to them – information that would not reach his halls without help.
And so, he walked.
This evening the cold was bitter but the streets were busy, layered with noise and signs and stalls. Overhead balconies were hung with flags and colour, and the dusk light made them shimmer like desperation. There was a throng of people still out here, people moved by need, outcast from the Fayre or come in from the farmlands and trade-roads, seeking answers the city could not offer. Many were homeless, or hopeless; they’d taken up begging and panhandling, turned to trickery and thieving – anything to secure trade-goods and a roof for the night. Others had struggled to set up new livelihoods, and had been swallowed by the morass.
The blight had not reached Roviarath, but she had still become a jumble, her streets streaked with want and worry.
Jade walked, watching.
Even in the fading half-light, he could see the tension that swelled beneath the haphazard trading. His soldiers were prowling, wary. There was no outright violence, not yet, but the city was writhing with an excess of manipulations – underhanded pressures, intimidations and demands – an ebb and flow of street-strength that had little to do with the Warden himself.
He had to control it, and he wasn’t sure how.
As the dusk slowly thickened into darkness, Jade’s mind turned his choices as a chearl turns a stone millwheel.
Methodically, and in circles.
Nivrotar had called him to muster, to cross the winter Varchinde to a battle-site semi-legend, there to face an impossibility. Larred was a merchant, he could tally odds – Nivrotar’s summons contained the weight of the Varchinde entire.
Though Phylos had failed at the last, Fhaveon was in ruins and the plains in chaos. If Nivrotar was right, and the Kas really ro
se, they would all die.
If.
Nivrotar’s message was an assumption. It had said when.
But Larred had failed once before – he hadn’t listened when Ress and Triqueta had first come to him. Now, he could see the full tale and he understood the Lord of Amos’s ploy – but his people were huddled and scrabbling for what they could hold… he could no more leave them than he could gouge out his own heart.
Over him, the sky was dark now, clouded and rain scattering. Though he could not see the lighthouse itself, the white shine from the tower still proclaimed hope; somewhere the moons shone brilliant.
So many times, he’d wished that he’d listened – so many times. But Jade was a practical man, and though the regret taunted him he channelled and managed it, used its energy to seek solutions.
Ahead of him the streets narrowed, their stones smooth or carven with leafed faces. The buildings were taller, their roofs pointed hard against the sky. In stripes of shadow, layers of balconies lined the roadway; walkways stretched from one side of the street to the other. The street was hung with lanterns, though their rocklights were long gone.
What…?
With an odd shiver, he paused. He could hear the shouts of the street-bazaar, trading even in the darkness, the hooves and the arrival of the Banned. Following an odd impulse, he found himself looking to both sides of the main thoroughfare – at side streets heavily shadowed, bereft of market stalls, and silent as the plains’ cooling corpse.
His heart pounded, though he’d no idea why. Jade stopped.
Listened harder.
And then, a distance away but coming closer by the moment, he heard running.
Fast running.
It was upon him more swiftly than he realised – it was right there at the end of the side street. It was the sound of panic, more feet racing after. Shouting, raw and distinctive. Jade glanced back down the roadway, then ducked in close to the wall – ahead of him, at the end of the street where the lighthouse shone free on an open plaza, he thought he saw movement, a flicker of fear.
