Ecko Endgame (30 page)

He said, “Why did you delay?”

The bright winter sunlight dappled patterns on the tent’s fabric, though the stealing wind was bitterly cold. Amethea quelled an urge to shove her numb hands up her sleeves.

The Lord of Amos smiled. “Your fear gave you the speed you needed to survive,” she said. “A good choice, Commander, and a brave one.” The smile held no mockery. “Giving up control is not easy. And regaining it, once lost, takes a miracle.”

Mostak snorted, unappeased. “This is your strategy, my Lord of Amos—”

“This fight belongs to all of us.” In her dark armour, she reminded Amethea of old paintings, of histories lost – she seemed anomalous, somehow, some figment of the past.

“We face our own troops,” she said, “our friends, fallen to Vahl’s lure. We face the blight; we face the end of the Varchinde entire. Commander, if we fail, we will die up here to the last man and woman. I have stores, fodder, fuel,” she glanced at Amethea, “remedies – but we are besieged, and our time is limited.”

“Triqueta will come.” Amethea’s voice held a squeak. She forced it down. “I know she will.”

“I believe she will,” Nivrotar said. Her face flickered a faint smile, though at what, Amethea couldn’t tell. “Larred Jade refused Triqueta once, which is precisely why he won’t do so again. Guilt is a powerful thing.” The smile deepened. “All things happen for a reason, little priestess. You, of all people, know that.”

Little priestess.

All things happen for a reason.

Now, those words and the memories associated with them made her angry.
How dare you—!

Beside her, Rhan suddenly coughed, a puff of startled vapour, and then doubled over, fingers to his temples. His face was lined with ash and shadow, he was shrunken and shaking, exhausted to a point she’d never seen – but he had a determination to him, was still fighting.

His voice like gravel, he said, “They’re taunting me – I can hear them, all the time. Pulling at me:
E Rhan Khavaghakke.
I’m like the odd child left out of the game, the adult that’s missing the party—”

“Ironic,” Mostak commented, his tone like a slap.

“Oh, shut up.” Rhan glanced sideways at the Tan Commander and the response had a flicker of his old, sardonic humour. “If you can’t find a way to block them, don’t make smart remarks.
You
can’t damned well hear it.”

“I’m Valiembor,” Mostak said. “I can feel it in my very bones.”

That brought a silence, as if they all strained to hear the voices of the Kas down there on the hillside, the monsters mustered by the curtain-wall. The creatures below them watched with a hunger that was palpable, even from here.

Amethea shivered.

“So, what now?” Rhan pulled himself back to his feet. “The camp is set up, stores and hospice ready. We just sit here until dusk?”

“We have numbers and ground.” Mostak’s pacing had an edge of mania, as though the tent were somehow airless. “We should strike back. Send bretir, co-ordinate the assault with Roviarath hitting Vahl in the flank. We can finish this – and we can
win.
”

Nivrotar chuckled, the sound as cold and bright as the winter morning. “It’s the Kas themselves that await us, Tan Commander,” she said. “I wish it were that easy.”

* * *

The parley came under the traditional yellow flag. Against the bleak hillside it snapped brilliant, like the final piece of the world’s lost sunshine.

Selana Valiembor, Lord of the fallen Fhaveon, ruler of the dead Varchinde; Kas Vahl Zaxaar.

She rose ahead of her two companions, rode with a palpable confidence, a new blaze of righteousness that reminded Rhan forcibly of Phylos. Young though she was, her Archipelagan heritage was suddenly visible in her bearing and demeanour – and Vahl himself seemed to float about her like a cloak, a rising flare of power and strength that she wore only to make herself beautiful. Ink seethed in her skin.

To one side of her rode the military commander Ythalla, the old soldier grey-haired, spear-straight and apparently unchanged. She carried two ink stripes on her cheekbones like war paint, and she bore the truce flag with a certain, silent contempt.

To Selana’s other side rode Brother Mael.

The old scribe’s presence hit Rhan like a fist. Mael had been the last good man in the city, a man whose courage and insight had saved Fhaveon – Mael had
humbled
him, dammit. Now, the old man rode arrogant, younger, his bearing almost mocking. He’d lost his pince-nez, and his face was sharp and shrewd, cruel.

He met Rhan’s gaze with his brothers’ humour, daring him.

A long time, my estavah. Tell me, how have you been?

Kas Tamh Gabryl.

The name was like claws in his skin.

His armour burned and battered, Rhan came to the ruins’ outermost edge to look down at his family, his brothers – as if he could, and would, defend the great ruin single-handed.

Beside him stood Tan Commander Mostak, Selana’s uncle.

Behind them, Nivrotar waited with her maps and her catapults, watching.

But the Kas intended no treachery.

Selana came forwards, Mael at her side. They were tiny against the hillside, fragments under the sky. As Rhan watched them approach, he could see the writhe of the ink in their skin, the slowly circling serpents that moved with their thoughts and needs and passions…

Images tumbled, tangling.

Four hundred years. Vahl screaming in blood and flame and steam and fury, assailing the walls of Fhaveon herself. Fire over the water, death across the plains. Samiel charging Rhan – “If you fail me, you will be as nothing.” Phylos on the clifftop. Falling through chaos, rising through water. Fhaveon, House Valiembor, generations of children. Each crying babe in his hands, and his sworn protection. Now the last of the line grown to power and stood there, his brother in her eyes…

The images were bright, vivid, gone in a flash. They left him shaking – so much was layered in this moment, as if everything that had ever happened was somehow focusing
here…

“I would speak in peace,” Selana said. Her voice carried without effort, as though the wind itself did her bidding.

Mostak called in return, the words unreal: “I will hear you in peace.” The litany was a human thing, ludicrous, tiny against the vastness of time and ruin.

Selana walked her horse a step, turned her face upwards.

“Then hear me, my friend, my defender, my brother, my uncle.” Her voice was her own, clear and sweet – yet under it, he could hear the
E Rhan Khavaghakke
that had been thrumming bass in his ears, pulling at his heart and soul.

“I admire you,” she called, “all of you! Your resistance has been strong. You’ve come far, and fought well, and your courage is commendable. What you’ve achieved is astonishing.” Charm and sincerity wove through her words, were borne on the morning air. She called love up to them, opened her arms and her heart. “But you know this is folly. However proudly you acquit yourselves, this will be your end.” Regret distilled from the words. “You cannot face us, and by the death of the sun tomorrow, every one of you will lie
dying.
”

The word was like a slap. From his vantage, Rhan could see the heat in her shoulders, in her eyes. And beneath her earnestness, he could hear something else – the challenge aimed at him alone.

Ah, my estavah, you’re so tired, and your attunement so weak. You’ve been running, protecting, healing, chasing down my hunting packs, defending your kine. I’ve been keeping you busy, little brother, distracted. I’ve been wearing you down, and your weariness is obvious. You cannot face me, any more than they can.

Selana spoke with him, the two voices twisting, one upon another, a writhe of sound.

“Yet I don’t wish you harm,” she said. “I want to offer you what I’ve always offered you, what my family has always offered you – home, security, wealth, a hand in salvation. Love.”

Love.
Mutterings flowed across the hilltop, crept around the ruined walls.

“I make no secret as to who and what I’ve become, but I’ve done this for
you
, for Fhaveon, for the future of the world herself. I am Vahl, I am Selana, I am Phylos. I am the last child of Saluvarith and I am your friend. You can
trust
me!” The word was a plea, tugging at all of them.

Yet Rhan could still hear his brother.
You know how we live. We’re drawn to those with strong emotion – ambition, grief, anger – to those we can understand, work within. You murdered her father, forced her mother, damned her city. What did you think she would do, Rhan? Of course she would come to me, and willingly, at the end.

His denial was reflex:
Damn you! I didn’t hurt Demisarr, or Valicia…

As if in answer, the Lord walked her horse forward another step, and her voice rose to a paean.

“My people, people of Fhaveon! Of Amos! Of the Varchinde entire! I’m not your enemy, I never was!” On the hilltop, bodies tensed. “Please,” Selana said, “you don’t need to end your days in blight and starvation, or in war and pain. I can help you. I
beg
you…” and now she rose in her stirrups, calling to them, “…lay down your weapons, your flags, your drums, and come to me.” She was their mother, their daughter, their sister, their lover, everything they had ever wanted. “I’ll welcome you, I’ll embrace and forgive you. All of you who choose to leave the ruin, the old ways, the stagnation and
death
of the Varchinde…” Rhan’s name was loud though she didn’t speak it, “…if you would have a new life, and progress – come down to me now. You’ll be named as estavah, as brother and sister, and a place will be made for you when the world begins again.”

On the hilltop, no one even breathed. Shiftings flickered among the gathered warriors, but no foot came forward.

“And make no mistake,” she said, “the world will begin again.” She sat down in her saddle and gestured at the army behind her. “It’s why we saved the
children.
”

The word had an edge; under its touch, Rhan flinched and shuddered. He could still hear the soul-call, his brothers pulling at him, but he ignored it and watched Selana carefully.

The young Lord studied the hilltop for a moment, then turned her horse full circle and went to wait beside Mael, her head lowered. He patted her shoulder, the gesture so human, so familiar and ordinary, that it pulled at Rhan’s heart.

Ythalla took her Lord’s place, armour shining. The old warrior’s voice rose dark with an undertone of power – in Ythalla, the Kas were both eager and obvious.

She said, “But the Count of Time isn’t going to wait. For now, we give you amnesty. You can come to us, one at a time if you want, or muster your courage and
revolt
against your commanders.” She was smiling, cold. “Come down, be reunited with your friends, your loved ones, with those who’ve missed and needed you. We’ve got food, ale, fire, warmth and welcome for those who wish it.” She turned, making her yellow flag snap, threw the last words over her epaulette. “But don’t take too long. At the sun’s zenith, anyone left will be beneath my blades and hooves.”

And you will be alone, little brother, alone in a world of death. You will come to us, give yourself, because there will be nothing else remaining. The world will be ours and you will have let it happen.

Watching, Rhan said nothing.
Let it happen.
He was grappling with their presence and power, with the voices and the bodies they were using, with an onrush of memories too much to bear. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was railing –
Samiel, why? Why have you let it come to this?
But he knew the answer.

The Gods had bored of the world; it was an old toy, rolled away and forgotten. He had been left – had been set up and cast down – to be its caretaker.

Calarinde, lost love. Why did you do this to me? If you have ever heard me, hear me now…

But Mostak shouted the only answer Vahl was going to get.

“Bollocks!”

At the response, Ythalla turned and sneered and spat, the gesture specifically aimed at her one-time commander. Selana shook her head, sorrow and regret; she looked up at her commander uncle as though pleading with him. Mael made no move; he watched the hilltop for a long moment, looked almost as if he would say something, then turned away.

As the three of them rode back to the curtain-wall and their own lines, the commander raised a hand for archers, but Rhan shook his head. Mostak’s face was flushed, his expression unreadable.

Rhan realised that he, too, was struggling with his family so close.

And Vahl must be laughing at all of us.

By the Gods. Bring me war, brother, bring me something I can face and understand. I want this over!

Behind them, the overgrown courtyards of the ruin were lined with warriors, and they were shifting now, with temptation and unease. Rhan understood: they, too, had had enough. They wanted an end, they wanted to go
home.
Slowly, the whispers were beginning, a susurrus of tension and curiosity; a restless need that flowed from lips to ears, and was rapidly gaining strength…

Selana speaks! And what if she’s right? What if her promise is true? What if there’s healing offered for all? A future!

Food – and ale!

The zenith of the sun.

The warriors at the hilltop had been through the rhez itself. They’d lost their families and friends, their homes, their city. They’d run across half the Northern Varchinde, feeling it die beneath their very feet. The figure of Selana was like a light, bringing them home. Gone was the memory of the trick Rhan had pulled on the balcony – their Lord was here, and she was warm and real.

Because they needed her to be.

* * *

Okay, so he couldn’t help it.

The image was haunting him; fucking thing wouldn’t leave him alone. It felt like Eliza was ramming the point home –
See, you need to fight for the good guys, you need to care!
– and he just couldn’t let it go.

So, fuck it, he went out through the defences, looping out round the edges of the hillside. They were all intent on the parley anyhow, and hell, if they saw him, they could fucking bring it on.