Ecko Endgame

by Danie Ware

  The shouts were reaching a peak, there were running boots. Somewhere, she could hear hooves, voices calling her name. She wasn’t going to wait to see who it was.

  By the rhez, if anyone saw this they’d hang her where she stood!

  Dropping the blade, Triqueta backed away from the cooling corpse of the Tan Commander. His body was rigid, as if even in daemonism and death, he’d never faltered in his loyalty, or his courage.

  Like Redlock.

  But she didn’t have time for that now.

  There were more people behind her, a rise of caustic humour. She could hear voices she knew getting closer by the moment. Heroic monument, her arse, Nivrotar would wind her guts onto a Gods-damned spool…

  Maybe that was why the Kas hadn’t bothered hanging around.

  Triqueta looked swiftly about her and ducked into the remains of a campsite bivvy. She hunkered down in the smells of shit and cold and soil, and tried to calm her scrambled thoughts.

  The Commander’s last words were critical, they circled her like predators. She tried to think where they would lead, but her thoughts were all jumbled. The battle was won, but Vahl—

  The Kas had never cared about winning the damned battle.

  Busy.

  From somewhere higher up the blasted hillside, a drum sounded the muster. Rocklights flared, drums and voices bawled commands.

  She needed to get out of here. She needed to reach the command tent and tell them what Mostak had told her.

  Where Kas Vahl Zaxaar had gone.

  * * *

  “It’s so simple when you understand it,” Roderick said. “Maugrim had no way of knowing that stone was an element, and he broke a fundamental rule without realising.”

  “And he stood upon its elemental soul,” Rhan said, “at the heart of the Powerflux.”

  “An’ he blew the fucking shit out of it,” Ecko finished, with some aplomb.

  “Kablooey,” Roderick agreed with him. “And so, we have a dirty great hole, cracks that spread through our life and our world and our soil.” He looked from face to face. “But that damage isn’t just physical. The Ryll knows – remembers, now – that the damage is in the Powerflux itself. If it’s permitted to spread further, then what will be left?”

  “The end of the Count of Time,” Rhan said. The words started as a jest, but his tone ran dry and he fell into silence.

  Outside, something cried, long and sorrowful.

  “So, c’mon, visionary,” Ecko said. “You’re on a roll, dude. The Powerflux is busted, so how do we fix it? Is this my shining moment? Where’s this bad guy at?”

  The Bard shook his head, spread his hands.

  “All right,” Rhan said. “Another question. What about the Soul of Air, that one’s a bit harder. If the stone is our foundation and strength, then the air must be our inspiration, our creativity? Can we find that?”

  The tent doors stirred, laughing at them.

  Inspiration.

  Creativity.

  And the Bard knew the answer. It came with a rush, with a rising, overwhelming sense of everything fitting together. His whole life. Something in him was shouting, raw and wild, crying in a voice none of them could hear…

  The Soul of Air.

  He let his garments fall open. Slowly, he picked up a rocklight, and raised his chin. Metal seethed, shifting and writhing and gleaming.

  And Ecko whispered, “Holy fucking shit.”

  He stood there, letting it move, letting them see how it felt and what it could do, see the scars he’d gained in acquiring it. Then he lowered the light, and looked back at them.

  He said, “I saw a world where information was everywhere. Communicated by thought, or so it seemed, free in the very air itself. And I asked to understand. To own it.” His words were a ripple of motion, graceful and eerie. “This is Khamsin. This is what Mom gave me.”

  “No,” Ecko said. “No, no. Absolutely not, fuckin’ no. This crossing-realities shit is startin’ to do my head in. There’s no way that Mom gave you technology that now transforms into magick. Mutually exclusive. You don’t get a plus-five elemental whosit of doom in the deep, dark depths of the fuckin’ London Underground, okay? It’s not a dungeon.”

  “Really?” Roderick laughed, and the sound was like the first whisper of the tsunami, like he wanted to shout forever. His excitement was tingling in his skin. “And what did she give you, Ecko? While you were screaming? Down there in the dark? Did she give you new strength, new speed, new skin, new eyes? Or did she give you her darkness?”

  “Hell yeah, maybe she gave me a loada techno-magick. Maybe I got the Soul of Dark. It’s the black eyes, nice symbolism. An’ hey, maybe that’s why we recognised each other.” Ecko’s comment was vicious, sarcastic. “We got matchin’ tattoos. Hell, let’s assemble the Avengers and go kick bad-guy butt.” He snorted. “When you remember where he is.”

  The wind stirred again at the tent’s doors, a cold breath that brought shivers to all of them. The Bard threw his torn shirt back round his shoulders, and began again his relentless pacing.

  “Ecko,” Rhan said, his voice like a rolling rock. “Say that again.”

  Ecko grinned. “You can be Thor if I can be Loki.”

  “When Roderick left the Ryll,” Rhan spoke slowly, as if exploring each word, each conclusion, before he spoke it aloud, “he came first to me. And I recognised him.” He caught the Bard’s gaze and he smiled, his expression briefly gentle. “And you, Ecko, I know you too.”

  The three of them looked at Amethea, but she made no response. The green in her skin was swelling, lichens flowering like decoration – but her jaw was clenched and sweat glittered on her forehead. Knowing what had happened to Ghar, Roderick wondered how hard she was fighting to keep her soul.

  But she was strong – as strong as the stone itself.

  “We’re the parts of the Powerflux,” Roderick said. The tent was alive with the realisation. It was crawling all over his skin, tingling with the connections and why they made sense. “That’s why the Ryll knew you. Knew you both. It’s why we know each other.”

  And then his knees did go, and he was on the floor and on the rugs, and looking up at the rest of them. His words were breathed in cold vapour.

  “You really are the darkness, Ecko, the darkness in which the fire burns brightest. And Rhan is the light, as he has always been.” He was shaking, swallowing before he could speak again. “Amethea has touched the Soul of Stone, holds the strength and heart of the world herself. And I have Khamsin, power to lift the heart and split the sky.” His throat slid, gruesomely sensual, as he spoke. “And if we can understand what Maugrim did, then maybe, maybe…” his voice became a whisper, “we can set this right—”

  He was interrupted by a thump of boots outside the tent’s door, a slap as the fabric was slammed back. In the rocklight, Tan Commander Triqueta was cold and bleak and filthy. Her leather armour was blood-soaked and torn, and her face was figment-pale.

  There were horrors in her yellow eyes.

  “My Lord—!” She stopped at the sight of them all, gathered there and facing her. “Secret meeting?”

  Roderick scrabbled to his feet.

  “Tan Commander.” Nivrotar stepped into the rocklight, diverting her attention. “Report.”

  “The enemy camp is secured, my Lord.” She paused, looking from face to face, went on. “Tan Commander Mostak is dead. Vahl’s fled the site, the rest of the Kas with him.”

  “What?” Rhan surged forwards. “What happened to Mostak? Where did Vahl go?”

  Triqueta stepped in, letting the tent flap drop behind her. Her gaze stopped on Amethea. “Dear Gods—”

  “Tell me about Vahl,” Rhan said.

  Triqueta glowered at the Seneschal, but answered him.

  “This,” she said, “all of this. It’s been a distraction. This has never been about winning a war.”

  Rhan’s face darkened. “What do you mean?”

  “Mostak told me, before he died.�
�� Triqueta’s jaw jumped; she looked from Amethea to Ecko, and then back up to the Lord of Amos, and to Rhan. “The Kas – they didn’t follow you to kill you. They followed you to keep you busy. They’ve gone to the Monument.”

  Rhan swore.

  And Roderick said, in a voice like flame, “Of course they have.”

  * * *

  “I’m coming with you,” Triqueta said. “To the rhez with Nivvy and her damned orders. You’re not doing this without me!”

  They stood outside the command tent, Triqueta and Amethea and Ecko. The walls of the ruin stood over them, black and glistening-cold. Cross-hatched moonlight cast impossible shadows, massing monsters in corners.

  Ecko said, “You’re the fuckin’ boss, Triq. Guess who gets mop-up detail?”

  “No damned way.” Fuming, Triqueta aimed a kick at a tent peg. Out across the ruin’s floor, the rows of barracks stood silent and iced in frost.

  “Amethea should be staying, not me,” Triq said. “She needs help—”

  “I have to go with them.” Amethea was huddled under layers of cloak, her face blotched with stains of living moss. One eye was half-closed, now, and the same stuff grew at the corners of her mouth. She had a vague and perpetual frown, as if at some internal search or turmoil. “I have to hold on for long enough… Whatever this is, the Monument has my answers too.” She blinked, made an effort to focus. “It’s all tied in together, I can feel it.”

  “You can’t!” Triq turned on her, almost pleading. “I can’t lose you too. Please, Thea, isn’t there an apothecary who can help you? Anybody? Someone who even understands what this is?”

  “Not even Rhan.” The word was bitter. Amethea’s mouth flickered with hurt, and the movement peeled at the lichen at the corners of her lips. Absently, she scratched at it. “Triq, I have to go.”

  Triq swore, then threw her arms around her friend. After a moment, Amethea responded, but the hug seemed confused, and her gaze stayed half-focused. She patted Triqueta on the back, and let her go.

  “I’ll be okay,” she said.

  “You come back, you hear me,” Triqueta told her. “We need you. I need you.”

  “I will,” Amethea said. Then she seemed to stand up straighter and her focus cleared slightly. “You never know, I might even put my shoulder to the wheel.” She took Triqueta’s hands. “Look, I’m going back to the hospice to gather what I can. But – first light – you’ll come and say goodbye?”

  Triqueta nodded. “I still say I should—”

  “Ecko’s right,” Amethea said. “You’re a war hero, you’re in command, and you’re needed here.”

  “Shit!”

  Amethea let Triq’s hands go and turned away. She ducked under the frozen guy-line and was gone, her grey cloak dissipating in the cold.

  Triqueta rounded on Ecko. “And you? Are you coming back?” The question seemed poised on the edge of tears, or judgement. “Or do you – what? – fade out of existence when all this is over?”

  Ecko watched her, trembling, telling himself he was cold. Faced with his own end credits, he was thinking about his score, those numbers racking up in one corner of the screen. Had he completed this task? Or that one? Finished all the side quests? Found all the fucking Easter eggs?

  Achievement failed.

  Hell, he wanted to reach out to her, but he still didn’t have a fucking clue…

  I’m sorry, hey, I’m here for you. Like, what can I do to make it better?

  Asshole.

  Instead, he said, “This is it, Final Showdown.” His voice was soft, as if he was already resigned to his failure. “I don’t get to come back. We gotta save the world, fulfil the prophecy, whatever the fuck. An’ if we do, I guess I go home. An’ if we don’t, we all fuckin’ die anyhow.” He watched her face, her eyes, the golden shine of her skin. “This is it, Triq, Mount Doom.” He made an odd, swallowing noise in his throat, but she didn’t get the joke, and it kinda wasn’t funny anyhow.

  It all ends here.

  The line of her mouth jumped, like she was fighting tears. She closed her eyes, raised her face to the moons. Her skin was carved in age and pain, marked with all the things she’d seen. The stones in her cheekbones glittered.

  Greatly daring, feeling like a dickhead, he managed, “I… I guess I’m gonna miss you,” and then he cursed himself for not managing something smarter. “Y’know, all of you.”

  But it made her smile, looking back down and meeting his eyes. Then a sudden grin lifted her expression, and she gave an impish chuckle.

  “Funny,” she said, “when Tarvi took my time, I didn’t realise I’d have to be responsible as well as just older.”

  It was only a joke, but the mention of Tarvi was like flooring his accelerator. He felt his adrenaline dump, his heart lurch and then pound-pound-pound like an industrial hammer. His knees wouldn’t hold him. She was so close, and he was abruptly, tautly aware of how good she smelled.

  Under the sweat and the blood, she smelled like a spice market. Like marzipan. Like butter. Like, even in the midst of the dead Varchinde, she had a saffron subtlety of warmth and promise that made him shiver…

  You fuckin’ loser! He berated himself, furious. What the hell’re you even thinkin’?

  Torn between anger and self-consciousness and a sudden crippling sense of want, he did the thing he’d dared once before – he laid a hand on the side of her face. The warmth and colour of her flooded his arm, and her skin was fine and smooth under his fingers. He could feel it, gritted in blood-flecks and dirt.

  “Bein’ a grown-up sucks,” he said, trying to muster a grin. “But I guess we gotta put our shitkicker boots on.”

  “I’m all right with it now,” she said. “Age brings its own strengths and insights.” Her chuckle sounded again, a moment of wicked delight in the darkness. She held his hand in place with her own. “Ecko.” She said his name as if she just wanted to find out how it tasted. “This has all been so crazed.”

  Ohhh, shit…

  He was trembling, breathless. Hopeless. Jesus H Christ, he was no good at this shit. He was shaking, as confused and as painfully overeager as some inexperienced teen.

  And then her arms were round his shoulders, sliding, and she was there against him. She was strong and sweet and supple and he could feel her leather armour and the leanness of her body beneath it and his hands were going around her back as if he’d never, ever let her go. He had a split-second of pure, cold panic, and then her mouth was warm, and wanting, and he could kiss her like he knew what he was doing and just let the rest of the world fall away…

  But there was still a shadow between them. Something a lot closer than Tarvi had been.

  He pulled back with an effort, needing to know. “Triq…”

  “What?” She was still close; she was breathing the word almost into his mouth.

  “Redlock…”

  “Redlock is dead,” she said. The word was abruptly fierce, and she pulled back to meet his gaze, her expression afire. “Ress is dead, Jayr is dead, Taure is dead, Mostak is dead, Roviarath is dead, the Banned is dead. The world is crawling on her knees.” She was whispering, but each word was a slap. “I’m desert-born, remember? Life is sacred. The life of the world, and the celebrations of what really matter. Redlock will never be forgotten: he’ll be with me ’til the day I die. However damned close that might be. You,” and now her hands pulled him closer, and her voice was in his ear, “you’re here. And tomorrow, you go too – you and Amethea both – and I have to grow up, once and for all. I have to rebuild a world.”

  For a moment longer, he teetered on the edge of massive, world-shaking indecision. But the simple urge of want was roaring loud, drowning out everything else. It flexed him under the touch of her hands, it pushed him closer into her, it wrapped his arms around her back.

  It made her catch her breath in response.

  In the darkness, the moonlight caught the opal stones in her face, the blood scattered across one side of her jaw. It caught the go
ld of her skin.

  And it made her shine.

  Drenched in disbelief, Ecko wished he could keep this one image, this one moment…

  And then his indecision was gone and he touched his mouth to hers. He had no clue what he was doing, but she kissed him back fearlessly, a murmur of pleasure in her throat. And he found himself responding, losing everything else to the sensations and the scents of her.

  And later, when she was there under him, a tangle of hair and blankets and rocklight, when her smooth thighs were hard around his hips and pulling him into her, when he was kissing her, still in astonishment and wonder and incredulity, when he was feeling the arch of her back and her slender, callused hands on his skin and her body wrapped all hot and sliding round him…

  Then he would have given his entire fucking soul for that world, for that lust and closeness and release, to be real.

  26: VISION QUEST

  THE KARTIAN MOUNTAINS

  It was the ruin that finally gave Lugan his insight.

  The building was a stone cot, walls crumbled and beam roof half-collapsed, all of it grown over by creeper that had long since dried to desiccation. It looked like the kind of place you’d find some lone Highland warrior, battle-scarred and hell-bent on revenge. And Lugan knew it – or something like it – from the throttle-dropping days of his youth.

  The old shell stood in silhouette, guarding the mountain pass.

  He reached it as the sun was lowering in the sky ahead, and he paused to lean his weight on his knees, legs and lungs straining from the long, ragged climb. The wind cut like glass, making him cough, and swear, and cough again.

  Memories passed him like tail lights: urban desolation, revving engines through abandoned buildings, a sore arse and stiff back, cold hands, ears that thundered with ferrocrete echoes. Then he grunted, half-reminiscent and half-scornful, and straightened up, wincing. He closed his eyes to the sunlight, absorbing much-needed warmth.

  His Pocket of Eternal Dog-Ends had finally run dry, old baccy re-rolled and re-rolled until it was almost pure tar. Even his flask was empty – though he’d stopped to refill it with water at every possible chance. He wondered if there was anything in the cot that he could smoke, or eat.