Ecko Endgame (12 page)

The Uber-Nasty. The Promise of Samiel. Captain Greasy Smear. The ready-built-in superhero that’d led Ecko to flee The Wanderer rather than face the Council. Reflexively, Ecko had been expecting the old guy with the long white beard, but if this bloke was a superwizard, then Ecko was a fucking ballerina.

Rhan had the white hair, but that was where it ended. Rather than a beard and a long and manky robe, he had a jaw that would cut glass and shoulders like a museum statue. His face was carved in lines like long years of severity, and though he didn’t have the Bard’s height, he looked like he could pulverise rocks with his grip alone. Chrissakes, he didn’t look real – not that that was ironic or anything – he was some sorta bodysculpt, or he’d walked off of a plinth in the fucking V&A.

And if all of that wasn’t shock enough… it fucking happened
again.

Ecko recognised him,
recognised
him. The light was poor and the air thick with smoke, but it was like being jabbed with a taser-baton. Just like Roderick, just like the earlier flash with Amethea, Rhan was already there, neatly pre-programmed into the back of Ecko’s head. He was a phantom familiar, the residue of a half-watched movie, a brain-rig performer whose name he couldn’t quite remember…

Eliza must be pissing herself.

Bitch.

But Rhan wasn’t looking at Ecko. He was staring at the Bard.

The tiny cellar shrank round them, stinking and airless. There were black smoke stains on the beamed ceiling; the cold air was thick with panic and tallow.

None of that mattered.

Consumed by the Bard’s arrival, Rhan had come half to his feet, his expression changing from a friend’s greeting into something else, something transfixed, horrified and unnameable.

His deep voice barely a whisper, laden with a complex grief, he said, “Roderick?” He shook his head, disbelief or denial. “Dear Gods. What did you
do
?”

The Bard lifted his scarved chin, stepped back.

“What I had to.” His voice was pure power.

For just a moment, the look on Rhan’s carved face was so confused, so utterly lost, that it broadsided Ecko completely. Something in him had wanted to hate this fucker – this overpowered-fallen-angel-whatever-the-hell – but he found himself oddly and unexpectedly touched. The look was so broken, the expression of a man who’d lost a friend, something he needed and loved.

A man shaken to the core of his soul.

What’s this, now? Empathy? Fucksake!

That another level-up skill?

Rhan said, his voice soft with horror, “Samiel’s
teeth.
”

As Ecko found a corner of the small room, the colours in his skin were blotching with a pale, sourceless light. Amethea had stopped almost halfway down the steps from the trapdoor – she was staring at Rhan as if trying to see the superbeing that lurked under his skin.

“Your city’s in blood and ruins,” Roderick said, cold as a blade. “And worse is to come. I bear you a message from Nivrotar in Amos. And you need to listen.”

* * *

Still guarded by the scruffy tan of soldiers, Ecko’s first sight of Fhaveon, Lord city, ruling might of the Varchinde, yadda yadda, had been a bit of a fucking let-down.

He and the Bard and Amethea had trailed all the way across the plains in the freezing, fucking cold, carrying their message like good little children, and they’d fetched up at the city’s outer walls, being eyed like bugs by a scatter of archers. Here, their self-appointed escort had left them, apparently satisfied with duty done.

Long since pissed with winter travel, Ecko had been bored, and hurting, and quite a lot of other things. He’d been thinking only of food and heat, of shelter from the relentless and glacial plainland wind. His butt ached like hell. Once, long ago, Pareus had taught him the trail trick of sitting on one ass cheek and then the other, but he’d still been sat on both of them for far too long. Stiff as a corpse, he’d cursed the Bard for losing the tavern, cursed the cold ground and the hard wind, cursed the beast under him for a lumpy spine that threatened to saw him in half… He’d
so
been looking forward to a smoky, stinky pub, a bowl of lukewarm mulch and a bit of petty larceny…

Christ, he’d been looking forward to a fucking
wash.

Apparently, though, what they’d found was a warzone.

Great. Just what we needed – a fuckin’ bonding vacation.

The morning air was bone-deep cold, ribboned with a thin mist that crept soft up the city’s flanks. Through it, he could see the broken buildings, the empty streets – and this so wasn’t the picture he’d carried. Hell, this was some sorta post-apocalypse fantasyscape – could there even be such a thing? Where was the star city, the striated stone, the rising roadways lined with crystal trees? Where were the statues, the falling waters, the glittering pools? And where was the handy fucking merchant with the end-of-level restock?

This… this reminded him of Aeona.

Pits of fire and mountains of ash.

Above the mist, Fhaveon’s heights were untouched – a stark tessellation of roofing, black against the paling sky. The sun was behind the city’s rise and from somewhere there came a pinpoint gleam of deep colour.

Roderick paused, a wraith in the white. “The Cathedral.” He pointed at the tiny colour mote, even as it faded and was gone, lost as the sun moved. “Beside it, the Palace, the main tithehall of the Cartel, and Garland House. It seems the rioting has not yet reached that far.”

“Rioting?” Amethea looked along the grim, dark line of the Bard’s outstretched arm, though there was no longer anything to see. “How do we get up there?” The mist swallowed the fear in her voice.

Ecko gave a sulky snort. “Why can’t you people just teleport, for chrissakes? They do it in all the—” The Bard shot him a glance, cold as stone. “Yeah, all right, whatever.” Silenced, Ecko seethed. How the hell had this fucker gotten so powerful? He could just
look
, now?

Yeah, you wait ’til I get you home…

“Fhaveon is changed, certainly.” As Roderick turned back, his grin was a fleeting impression of Ecko’s own. “But I don’t think we’ll have any trouble.”

* * *

“You’re jesting.”

In the tiny, smoky room, Rhan was reading Nivrotar’s letter; black ink like squashed spiders crawled across its surface. His other hand pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger – fighting incredulity, or detonation.

“This is
crazed.
” His deep voice was a full bass-boom, heavy with disbelief. “You even
dare
bring this to me? You even dare
ask
?” He threw the letter down and rounded on Roderick with a speed that made it flutter like a dying thing. “I ought to pull your damned insides out.”

The Bard’s tone was flat. “It isn’t a request.”

Rhan spun back, picked up the curl of paper, brandished it at him. “You know where you can shove this.”

Roderick shrugged. “You’ll do as she says.”

“You’re barking loco.” It was a statement, hard as nails. “You can’t begin to imagine what I’ve seen, what I’ve done, what I’ve fought, what I’ve
killed
, to regain my city. I’ve braved the waters of the Ryll, defeated Phylos, thrown down my brother not a stone from where you’re stood.” There was no irony in his voice; he wielded words like weapons. “We’ve got food, terhnwood – enough to stabilise. You don’t tell me what to do, and neither does Nivrotar. I’ve cast down Kas before and I’ll do it again. Whatever you
think
you’ve become.”

The barb made the Bard smirk, brief and humourless.

Ecko made that one-all. His adrenaline was boosted, his targetters kicked. His oculars cycled scanning modes. If this fucker kicked off, Ecko was gonna hit him there, there and
there
before he could start flinging lightning bolts or whatever—

Rhan’s body temperature was noticeably rising.

A blink and a second reading showed the same thing – this joker had a core temperature that’d melt gold fillings and he was emitting a hefty whack of UV.

What the…?

Lacking a bucket of ice, Ecko shifted, eased fractionally away. He had no plans to wind up as an ash pile and a pair of smoking shoes.

But Roderick was on his feet, narrow and black. He had the height, had every bit as much presence.

He repeated, “You’ll do as she says.”

“Oh, will I?” Rhan snorted, his temperature spiking. “This is ego. You just want your predictions to have been true. All that time waiting, searching, moping and you weren’t even here – your final foe manifested in Fhaveon, and you
missed
it. And now, what, you want to play it again, just to prove that you were right?”

“Vahl is not the—”

“
Shove
it.”

Ecko changed position – reflex, keeping in stealth. Without reading the letter, he wasn’t entirely clear as to what was going on.

Roderick said, “Rhan, you know the truth of the world’s enemy. You’ve fought a battle, and a brave one, but this isn’t over—”

“You patronising bastard!” Rhan’s words were white, aflame. “I
won.
”

“Did you? Games are Vahl’s lifeblood, manipulations and betrayals.” Ecko could hear in the Bard’s voice the death of Karine, his grief. “Did you think it would be that easy? We’ll lose everything unless you listen to me.”

“I’ve beaten Vahl once, I can do it again, army or no army. As many times as it takes. Nivrotar has no hold over Fhaveon – no hold over me. This is my city, my purpose, my family, my Gods-given charge. You
know
all of this. Dammit, Roderick—” Overcome, Rhan seemed almost to be fighting tears of sheer fury. His temperature continued to climb, and Ecko wondered what the hell he was going to do – explode, or manifest as Something the Fuck Else…

Daemon. Dragon. Slumming-it Deity. Oh c’mon, give us a clue here…

Amethea, unnoticed by all, had reached for the letter. A frown ghosted across her pale, dirty face as she read down the page.

Then she said, “It does make sense, if you think about it.” The knell of inevitability in her soft voice brought stillness to the room.

Rhan turned; his voice was a whisper, incredulous. “Samiel himself charged me—! I’ve never relinquished—!”

“You don’t have a choice,” Roderick told him. “Think about it, Rhan,
think
about the city.” His voice was strong, but there was none of the force that he could have put behind it. Ecko realised that he was withholding whatever coercive might he had – Rhan’s agreement had to be genuine. “Think about what you’ve been left with. Even with the terhnwood you’ve found – can you fix this? Can you make Fhaveon live again? Arm her for war? Enough to face the Kas? I understand your pride, Gods know you know that,” his hand rested on Rhan’s arm, “but please, for the sake of the world herself, please at least think this through.”

“Samiel’s
bollocks.
” Rhan was all shoulders and towering fury. For a moment, Ecko thought he’d really detonate. But then he sagged in resignation, his temperature falling like a sigh. He snorted, ironic and rueful. “You accursed bastard. Only you –
only
you could even bring this to me. And Nivrotar knows that. Bitch.”

Roderick chuckled, the expression still wary. “She certainly can be,” he said. “But if it helps, I think she’s right.”

* * *

The streets of the great city were devastation.

Leading their mounts through the scattered rubble, bristling with wariness, they’d made cautious progress, watching as the white mist thinned and the sunlight swelled behind the city’s black heights.

Here in the shadow of the cliff, the streets were cold and the rocklights failing. Fires glimmered in the shells of buildings; the crystal trees stood bare and harsh, fingers splayed and frozen. Ecko found Amethea walking close – apparently less afraid of him than she was of the Bard – and he took a strange comfort in her presence. She was warm, and she had more fucking sense than the rest of them put together.

A long grey creature scuttled in front of them and was gone.

Ecko let his gaze rest on the Bard ahead of them, oculars cycling like questions, endless. He wondered somewhere in the back of his head what the hell else Mom had done to him.

Are you faster than me, now? Stronger? Smarter? Or can you just bring fucking sky down on my head?

C’mon, Eliza, was his London real, or is it just all still in my head? Do I still have to unravel this to get the fuck outta here?

But there was no answer to that one – and the route’d drive him batshit. He dragged his thoughts, kicking, back to the broken streets.

Then a cold drip shuddered down his back and he paused, turned to look about them.

They were being
watched.

He knew it, even without the ocular scan – he could feel them, all around, eyes in the mist. Just like on the trade-roads, though, the watchers were waiting; they were eyes-only, cold trails of gaze like wet fronds across his skin.

As he moved forwards, intent and silent, they seemed to gather closer about him. He found himself wanting to shout, to exhale, to turn and run at them like they were London pigeons – just to break the tension.

The air was crisp, like frost; it felt like it would shatter. His breath steamed.

And the watchers closed tighter, flickers of motion, scuffles and whispers.

Slowly, skin crawling like contagion, they rode higher. As they climbed, hairpin-bending up the inside of the city’s long hill, the sky grew lighter, the air less cold.

Amethea had pulled even closer to his side. Ecko’s adrenaline trembled right under his skin, in his mouth, eager for release. It had been too long, far too long, since he’d raged free and he craved it like an addiction.

Ahead of them, Roderick walked as though stripped of sense and senses alike.

They came to an open plaza with a tumble of glittering water. The square was empty, the flagstones cracked and daubed with some sort of sigil. Just as Ecko was wondering why they’d been herded here, and what the fuck they’d be sacrificed to summon, the shadow of people behind them paused.