Ecko Endgame (11 page)

She’d slung her bow – there was no movement in the blackness that she could see – and drawn her blades, but they felt tiny, the incisors of some smaller predator, faced by the might of the plains’ greatest terror.

And they ran.

The mare was labouring now, her gait uneven and her breathing hard. If she missed her footing, if her hoof found a burrow or hole…

The wail came again, the terrible hunting cry.

Triq laid her chest on the saddle pommel and whispered to the mare, “Come on, lovely. You can do this. We can do this together.”

Then, there it was, the faintest glimmer of white in the blackness. Like the Fhaveonic legend of the fallen star, like the tiniest glimmer of hope, it gave the pure night focus and scale, made everything diminish to its normal size. The wail was still there, but the light pulled both of them like an elemental rising, like some—

The wail deepened to a snarl, right behind the mare’s heels.

The mare leaped, kicking, and something went past her; there was a sensation of heat and teeth. Neck lowered now, the horse was running in a flat-out bolt, homing in on the light as if it were the only point of sanity in the smothering dark.

Triq wished she believed in the Gods she was praying to, and her hands tightened on the blades.

Okay. I can do this. Redlock faced one of these bastard things single-handed. I can do this.

Now.

With a fluid motion she’d learned as a child, she turned in the saddle and stared out over the mare’s rump, out into the featureless black.

Were those eyes? Teeth?

The bweao was close, she knew it. There was something right there in the darkness, right—

Then she became aware of another noise, something else between her and the river.

Nearly choking on her own fear, she strained to see, but there was nothing, no movement, no hint of what it could be.

It was big, bigger than she was, its breathing heavy. It seemed to be closing behind her, as if it too was going to chase the little mare to the very outskirts of Roviarath itself.

Triqueta’s heart was screaming in terror. Her breath was sobbing in her throat. She was muttering, over and over,
I can do this. I can do this…

In a flash decision that surged ahead of any kind of sense, she slung both blades and reached for the panniers on the mare’s rump. She scrabbled in the darkness; things were falling and being lost and she didn’t care and she knew what she was looking for and then her hands found them and she was striking, striking for that spark…

There!

A wash of light was in her face, suddenly blinding her and she blinked as a tiny circle of plain came into view. Red flared, shadows were edged in malice, and concealing horrors danced without name – but she saw it, just for a moment.

Bweao.

Smaller than she’d realised, a low, lithe body that seemed slung between its high-kneed legs, claws like scythes, needle-teeth that gleamed in the light. Its eyes were glittering red. It blinked at her.

And it grinned.

She hadn’t thought that the little flame would chase it away, but—

Dear Gods!

Then something else was between her and the crouching bweao, something unfamiliar, something huge.

And her thoughts froze cold, as if she couldn’t understand what she was seeing.

It was bigger than the bweao, bigger than she and the mare combined. It was chearl in body, massively powerful but misshapen somehow, as if a human body had been crammed onto the creature where its head should have been, some bare-backed and muscled warrior with his hair knotted and filthy and
red
in her little light…

He was facing the bweao, his heavy chearl body bigger than a horse and rearing, his great foreclaws twisted…

For a moment, he turned, his human teeth bared and filthy. He had no words, but he knew who she was. He met her gaze with a single, searing look, and then turned back to the bweao.

No longer caring if she was screaming or not, Triqueta fled.

* * *

CityWarden Larred Jade came to his feet at the sight of her, reaching out a hand, as if to catch her before she fell. But she stood there in his wooden hall on her own two cursed feet. She’d made the heart of Roviarath with her skin intact…

Just.

Triqueta clenched her fists, knowing she was shaking – from exhaustion, shock, from the long loco run across the empty winter plain. From the short walk through the city, from the wide eyes of the frightened people.

From the damned centaur.

Had she dreamed him, for Gods’ sakes, out there in the dark?

“Get Syke in here.” Jade flung the command like a knife and he was gripping her shoulders, searching her face with a gaze that asked her every question, demanded every answer. He looked tired, older; there were long lines down his cheeks and he was too close, too intense. She pulled away, holding up her hands… only to be hurled to the floor by a shout and full body tackle that she knew all too well.

“Oof! Get
off
me, you damned thug!”

Family.

Syke bounded back to his feet. He was grinning, helping her up and hugging her to his chest, thumping her on the back hard enough to make her cough.

“You dozy mare, where the rhez’ve you
been
?”

For just a moment, she wanted to throw herself into his brotherhood and forget it all – Redlock, Ecko, Kas, blight, everything – just let the whole cursed world go away and fend for itself…

Family.

But Aeona’s nightmares had cast an unexpected darkness across her heart, and the memory tasted sour, like doubt. She pulled back.

The blade in her cheeks, the blood from beneath her opal stones. Her sire. Kicking and spitting.

No. Not going back there. Not ever.

She found her voice, her grin. “I’ve got messages, cargo – well, some.” She’d scattered mud and filth and the Gods alone knew what all over Jade’s polished wooden floor. “Nivrotar sent me with… things.”

But Jade brushed filth and concerns aside, held out a steaming tankard of something spiced and herbal that a curious youth had slipped into his hand. Syke was still slapping her shoulder, all insults and ribald concern.

“You pick your time, girl. How’d you get here with your skin still on?”

After the empty plain, the desolation of the winter Varchinde, the cold sky, it was too much. They were too close, the smell was too strong – she was finding it hard to think, to draw breath.

She stepped away, exhaled. Tried to stop her cracked hands from trembling.

“For Gods’ sakes.” She found a laugh, but it sounded more broken than humorous. “I’ve fought a cursed bweao on the way here, no jesting. Just… just give me a moment, will you?”

“Bweao?” Syke mouthed the word at Jade, who shrugged, then firmly handed her the tankard.

“Sit your backside down, and drink this. Roviarath isn’t going to fall to bits while you get your breath back. In fact,” he gave a brief grin, “she’s just about holding her guts in, which is more than can be said for most.”

“Did you pass the Monument – the hole – on your way in?” Syke was pacing now, a coil of energy – he wanted to know everything, every tale, every update. “By the Gods, Triq! What happened to Ress? To Jayr? That hefty grunt of a boyfriend of yours? And – a
bweao
?”

His restlessness was familiar – an old friend.

Family.

Kicking and spitting.

Overpowered by all of it, she found herself biting her lip, turning away, searching for words but unable to speak.

And Syke came to one knee on the floor, looking up at her. He said gently, “Triq. I’m glad you’re home. You look like you’ve been through a war.”

“You’ve got no idea.” It was barely a whisper. “Whole world’s gone loco.”

“Yeah, we know it.” He patted her arm. “We’ve been here trying to fix it.”

“Roviarath’s better than some,” Jade said gently. “On your way through the city, did you see—?”

“I saw queues,” she told him, “people with barrows laden with produce, some of it rotting. Bringing animals, livestock, Gods know what. They were in lines outside the tithehalls. I don’t—”

“They want terhnwood.” Jade shrugged, helpless. “Literally, they can’t last the winter without it. They bring everything they’ve got into the city in the hope of securing even a little. They can’t even craft it properly without help. The crafters I’ve got remaining, they’re here, with me. The terhnwood, the same – what little there is left. We craft, we ration, we distribute, but it’s hard to maintain control. The people clamour and riot for it, waves against the walls. Syke—”

“We’re keepin’ stuff balanced, much as we can.” His grin was cold and eager. “For as long as we can eat, we can hold.”

Jade added, “The blight hasn’t reached us – only the terhnwood shortage. And people without food get a lot angrier, a lot more quickly. In some ways, we’ve been lucky.”

Triqueta shook her head, inhaled steam. “You’ve had a harvest.” She looked up at them, her belly churning. “What about the…” She didn’t say it, but they knew what she meant.

The hole. The wound in the world. The place where the Monument had been, where we threw down Maugrim, but changed the world forever.

She’d passed it on her way, of course she had, but she’d not stopped or gone close – she’d not dared. The place was layered with memories of monsters, of the centaur stallion, of Feren and Redlock and Ecko and fire, of the Bard and The Wanderer – of a time when an enemy was a solid thing that could be faced and fought and defeated.

Syke and Jade exchanged a glance.

Jade said, “Yes, we had a harvest – just about. You really want to know?”

To give herself a moment to find her resolution, she rustled in a pannier for a leather message tube. It was sealed with Nivrotar’s craftmark, and she handed it over.

“Here. Read this while you tell me.”

Syke passed the tube back to Jade without even looking, said softly, “The hole’s all wrong, Triq, all wrong – the whole damn thing’s like some half-healed sore. Soil’s poisoned, black cracks spreading like – I don’t know – rot or something. It…” His hands reached for explanation, insight, a way to express some formless horror. “It’s like some cursed canker; it’s scabbed over like it’s trying to heal, but the infection’s still there. Eating away.”

“I didn’t go that close,” Triq said. She shrugged, admitted, “I was afraid.”

“Smart.” Syke patted her knee like an affectionate uncle. “So, tell me. You really kill a bweao?”

“No, I ran like the rhez.” She looked up, almost grinned for real. “But it didn’t kill me.”

“That’s good enough,” Syke told her, patting again. “Good enough. Now, are you drinking that or not?” He made a playful swipe for her tankard, and she snatched it back with a mock glare, splashed herbal on the floor, spreading the winter dust into a muddy pool.

There was a rustling as Jade pulled a roll of parchment from the leather sleeve, flattened it. He read, his face slowly congealing.

Syke leaned in, dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m glad you’re back, Triq, I need you, we need you here. We’re holding Roviarath – but with no trade and the Great Fayre destroyed, we haven’t got long. There’s been one assassination attempt already – messed it right up, as it turned out – and out on the trade-roads, people’re claiming that Jade’s withholding goods, arming up. If the tide of the people turns, we’ll have nothing – no terhnwood and no damned food either.”

Triqueta watched his expression, drawn and weary. She’d never seen him look old but there were white threads in his dark hair, scattered through his beard. The skin under his eyes was shadowed with uncertainty. He flickered a frown, his face furrowing at nothing.

In the sudden lines, she saw Karine.

She shuddered.

“Triqueta.” Jade dropped her name hard onto the wooden floor – its impact seemed to sound from the rafters. “This message – it’s genuine?”

“Nivvy handed it to me herself. Ecko…” she stumbled over his name, but recovered “…Ecko took one like it to Fhaveon.”

“Then she’s serious.” The CityWarden lowered the papers, still stubbornly rolling into a tube around his hand. He rubbed his other hand across his eyebrows. “Do you know what this message contains?”

Something in his voice made her stare, made Syke turn and come back to his feet. They spoke almost together, “What? What’s—?”

Jade held up his hand, cutting them dead. “You fought Vahl Zaxaar?”

“It’s a bit of a saga, but—”

“Yes, all right, I’ve got the basics – but Vahl Zaxaar himself – itself. By the Gods, this whole world becomes more damned crazed by the day. You really fought—?”

“Yes.” Triqueta stood. “Remember, we came to you before, asking you to believe in something and you wouldn’t – didn’t – and your city—”

“All right, don’t rub my snout in it.” Jade paced the floor, tapping the rolled parchment in his hand like some sort of baton. “Fhaveon was attacked, but she beat the monster?”

“Make sense, for Gods’ sakes.” Syke was watching the parchment like a hungry…

Like a hungry bweao.

But Jade seemed not to notice; he pointed it at Triqueta. “I’ve got my hands full. I cling to my city by wit and will alone. I throw back dissenters every day, rumours, voices spreading lies – and, frankly, spreading truths I’d rather not have known. The blight’s crippled us, Triq – we’re out of terhnwood and we’ve got no fighting force to speak of. Without Syke and the Banned, I’d be a corpse many times over. I can’t spare… I can’t…” With a curse that sounded more helpless than angry, he threw the parchment down, and it rolled in sheaves across the filthy floor. “You read it, you tell me what the rhez the Lord of Amos is playing at.”

Syke gathered a handful of the rolls together, tried to make sense of the markings, passed them to Triqueta. She shrugged. “What do they say?”

Jade looked at his filthy, plains-stained floor.

“They call me to a winter muster, Triq. Amos calls Roviarath to war.”

Rhan.