Ecko Endgame (24 page)

Hoped what?

That the Cathedral would grant them sanctuary? That Vahl would
respect
it? That the Gods would step down and deign to save them?

Put your shoulder to the wheel…

There was another feeling as well, something in her skin that was faintly familiar – but she couldn’t think about it now. Now there was too much fear and her breath was balled in her throat and she needed to know what the rhez they were going to do.

Gorinel hadn’t shaved and his jowls were rough with greying stubble. He rasped a dirty hand over them, thinking.

“Is the main force moving? Or is this just a scout?”

“I don’t know. The lookout—”

“Two priorities.” Unruffled, the old priest was in control. “Find out if it is. If it’s mobile we need to get word to Mostak, to Rhan. And… Samiel’s
beard.
”

Somewhere outside, in the tangled corridors of the crypts, there was screaming. Then came another rumble of stone, more distant – whatever they were, more of them were coming.

“I don’t think that one was a scout,” Amethea said softly.

“We’ll have to go deeper,” Gorinel said quickly. “Carry whatever we can. The tunnels in the cliff go on for days. Every able man and woman, every child strong enough to carry kit, we’ll get them moving. We may not be warriors, Amethea, but we don’t have to be esphen.” Gorinel watched her expression, then said, “And I’ll need you to do something for me.”

* * *

She ran.

She’d never been more scared in her life – and that was saying something – and yet her sense of purpose was absolutely clear, allowed for no mistakes or wasted time. She gripped the paper that Gorinel had given her and ran through the mad tangle of corridors, crypts and storerooms, tripping and missing turnings. She had no real idea where she was going and was trusting in… what? Luck? The Gods? Her own instincts? Whatever it was, she was running essentially downhill and hoping to every God she could remember that the stone beastie wasn’t there behind her – rasping and running – that the things couldn’t or wouldn’t tunnel this far down.

She ran.

The catacombs grew darker as the rocklights began to fade – down here, they couldn’t have seen daylight in generations and their elemental energy was spent. She scooped one up, holding it aloft, but quickly her arm grew weary and she passed it from hand to hand, making the shadows dance about her. The walls were decorous; images of lost mythology, sagas forgotten to the Count of Time. Here was a man with three torsos, one flesh, one red and one white; here were hands crafting a gift of flesh, holding it out to twins.

But the images were chipped and broken, and she had no time to stop.

She ran.

Gods alone knew what returns of Protectors had actually kept down here; what they’d needed all this for. There was probably treasure for days, forgotten artefacts, weapons of magick that would glow with forbidden power and spank Vahl Zaxaar’s daemon backside… There was probably something that would shatter that stone monster into riverside pebbles… But, turning to glance over her shoulder, she didn’t dare stop.

She ran – panting now, her heart and chest straining and her little rocklight sending figments scudding along the walls.

She passed the end of the catacombs and came out into the tunnels proper. Cold and damp, knotted and terrifying, she kept to her downhill heading and ran on, the echoes of her own boots scaring her, as if Vahl’s entire army were chasing her down.

Something in the back of her head remembered her saying to Triqueta, “As if I haven’t had enough of stone rooms!” and she wondered where her friend was, if she had reached Roviarath safely.

Whether she would see them, any of them – by the Gods, even Ecko – again.

She found that she’d stopped, was leaning on her knees and heaving to pull air into her body. She made herself walk, catching her breath.

Told herself she had time, she did, she really did. That there was no need to panic.

Somewhere now far above and behind her, Gorinel was mustering the people – not to fight, but to mislead, to delay and harass. They had water – she’d already passed several places where it oozed from the wall – but everything else they had to carry with them…

They were caught, trapped by blight and winter and fear. And now in a game of bweao-and-esphen that would stretch onwards through the Count of Time.

The Gods help those…

She had no idea if they could last the winter – what would happen with the spring. It seemed so far away, impossible.

She walked now, her heart slowing but its sound still loud in her ears. Her little rocklight was a pool of sanity in the rising dark. Sometimes she heard sounds from above her – shrieks, shouts, rumbles of rubble, once a roar of defiance that sounded like the Protector himself…

Gorinel!

She’d grown very fond of the fat old man in the short time she’d known him. He really did rely on himself, shoulder his own responsibilities – and if the Gods helped those who…

She stopped, her attention distracted by a sudden, sinking horror.

That odd-shaped outcrop that threw a peculiar shadow, she’d passed it before, she was sure… She fought to hold down sudden panic. She was imagining it. This wasn’t some saga-labyrinth for sacrificing maidens to monsters, it was just tunnelling and there were many exits. She was fine. She had her bag of staples over her shoulder. She had the heavy cloak Gorinel had thrown her. She had her good trews on and her sturdy boots – laced-up boots like Redlock’s, like Feren’s had been. There was no need to—

Screams sounded, a distant echo.

Her blood ran cold.

Would the monsters find her, all the way down here? How long would it take them?

Somewhere she’d heard tales of the great mouths that opened in the cliff face, endlessly spitting the Swathe River down into the sea; somewhere else, tales had told of tunnels that stretched all the way to forbidden Rammouthe itself.

All she needed to do was head downwards. All she needed to do was get the rhez out.

Reach Rhan.

And when I’ve done that, I’ll take the moons from the sky and wear them as ear-gems…

But her sense of purpose was strong as the stone that surrounded her, as the weight of the city over her head. And she took a breath and ran on, more slowly now, still carrying her little light.

She passed the outcrop again.

This time she stopped, her heart pounding, fighting for control.

Saint and Goddess – she’d be down here until the end of the Count of Time. Until she was the last free mortal left in the city. Until Vahl’s entire army had surrounded her and the daemon took her as some damned bride…

Shuddering, she exhaled.

Bride indeed!

Amethea had spent far, far too long feeling sorry for herself, all tangled with her own regrets and fears. She’d called Rhan on his selfishness – how she’d even dared! – on his obsession with his city, and now she must damned well face her own. Why would the daemon even want her, for Gods’ sakes? There was no one to blame and no one to help her – she’d broken Amal’s visions, by the Gods, and she could do this.

From somewhere now far, far above, she heard the Protector’s roar again.

And it made her feel strong, strong as the very stone that surrounded her, as the roots of the city herself.

And then, in the echoes of the noise, the tingle she’d felt earlier returned, a shimmer that she knew. She dismissed the outcrop and began to walk, getting her breath back, and her
feet…

Stone.

The touch of stone in her skin, in her soul. The blaze of catalytic passion that Maugrim had awoken. The rock that had grown through her very flesh. Touching the walls in the Monument’s tunnels, the strength and age that had lain there, untapped.

A confused rush, guilt and confidence.

And knowledge – all she had to do was go downwards.

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.

She was going to get out.

* * *

In the rain-soaked storehouse doorway, she stood shivering, and trying to listen.

The cold was bitter after the ambient tunnels, but she chewed her lips and tried to keep still. She’d no idea what had happened to the Cathedral behind her – if she emerged from the doorway and turned to look back up at the city, perhaps she’d see it in flames, see the Palace and the statuary all finally crumbling as Vahl celebrated with some orgy of gleeful destruction…

But she was free, the fresh air had called to her and she had broken into a stumbling run at last, emerged blinking and nearly crying with relief. Now she stayed where she was, cold biting her skin and watching the grey curtain of the rain.

Put your shoulder to the wheel, Amethea, and know that you are not abandoned.

Across the grey, she saw motion – a shadow, barely more than a figment. It was moving slowly, as if hurt, but the dull thud of hooves was unmistakable.

Her heart thundered.

Fixed to the spot as though stuck by an arrow, she waited, every sense straining. The shadow paused, one hoof beating restless, but there was no other motion.

The rider was alone.

Put your shoulder…

Carefully, she eased out into the downpour.

The Gods, apparently, were teasing her.

This was not some lone and injured rider – a free pass, offered by the Goddess for good work, or to reward her returning faith. Oh no, this rider was armed and well and truly awake. He was – had been – a courier, by the look of him; his garments were soaked and sticking to him, his hair pasted to his face. He was pale and shivering, young, but very much alive.

“What do you want?”

As she came close, his voice was loud in the drum-pulse of the rain.

Amethea spat water. “I need help! I need…”

I need you to give me your horse.

Like that was going to work!

She wondered what she was supposed to do. She had any number of fascinating herbal concoctions that would make him give her anything she wanted… but she didn’t have them out here. All she had was her wit and the blade at her belt.

“I need… help… I…”

Honest by nature, Amethea wasn’t a good dissembler. But the lad swung a leg over the saddle pommel and came towards her, his mount stopping to nose the overgrown flags.

“What’s the matter?” He stopped a short distance from her, wary. “What’s wrong?”

“I need… ah… I’ve got a message for Ythalla. I must get to her.”

Something in his stance felt like relief – like she’d spoken some password that made him trust her. Her mind said,
He’s an enemy
, but she shook the notion away – there was no such thing, he was a man doing a job and no more.

The blade at her belt was heavy, dragging at her like a bad decision.

She might have trained with it, but the thought of using it on flesh turned her stomach.

Have you saved a life, little lady? Have you taken a life?

In the rain, she heard the stallion’s laughter, cadaverous and deep. Her hand found the haft and tightened.

The courier said, “I can take you. To Ythalla. I can…”

“I can’t walk. I need… help…” She was repeating herself and felt ridiculous. Who would fall for this ruse, really?

“Or I can take the message for you.” The boy wasn’t coming any closer.

“It’s important. I have to take it personally. Please! You need to help me up!”

Her knees were folding, that much was true.

The Gods help those who…

The horse was grazing on something, shaking the water from its mane. Glancing briefly back at it, the boy came closer, blowing the rain from his mouth and nose. Snot slicked his cheek. He was barely more than a lad, his voice just changed.

Her hand tightened further, a gesture that was more denial than threat.

She stretched the other one towards him – a ludicrous and theatrical motion.

“Please!”

But as he saw her properly, he relaxed – apparently convinced that something that little and pale and pretty couldn’t be a threat. She felt the tension leave him.

She said again, softer, “Please!”

Redlock, in The Wanderer, when she’d refused to kill Maugrim:
Keep it that way.

The boy caught her outstretched hand, hauled her to her feet. She didn’t have to pretend to stagger – she nearly threw up. As she gulped air and rain, calming her belly, the horse raised its head to look at both of them, ears pricked forward.

As if it knew exactly what was about to happen.

The boy turned to it, talking softly.

His back was to her.

She had a moment, a moment only. A moment that would change who she was, how she saw the world. A moment in which she pulled the blade from her belt, feeling it heavy in her hand as if the very terhnwood had become metallic and cold.

You don’t have a choice!

And then, watching herself with a strange, slow motion that felt absolutely unreal, she turned her grip on the thing and whacked the back of his skull with the pommel.

As hard as she could.

The horse flared its nostrils and threw its head back, its tack clacking.

She knew exactly where to strike – the boy fell like a sack and didn’t move again.

Feeling sick, Amethea blinked at him for a moment, her hands shaking. Then she swallowed a mouthful of saliva, dropped the blade, and knelt, staring. She went to check his pulse – stopped herself.

The horse snorted again, and she picked up the boy’s kit-bag, stood to catch the animal’s rein.

She stroked its neck, talking softly.

And that
, she told the Gods,
is helping my damned self.

And somehow, the attack made it all real.

There was no time now for indecision, for thoughts of desertion or unrest; their enemy brought them fear, and their fear brought them unity. They pulled together, closed against both foe and winter, and the drums beat relentless in the morning.