Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

Holy fucking shit!

Despite himself, Ecko was retreating. His adrenaline shrieked but he didn’t know whether to scream, puke, run like fuck or kick the thing’s head clean out the fucking window.

What the hell..?

And then it was gone and Kale was standing there, scratching at his neck where fur had melted into skin. He was shuddering violently, steadying himself on the wall. He said, “Pain is a stern teacher.”

The phrase was a like a friend.

A stern teacher.

Ecko knew... knew what that meant, how it felt...

But Kale was still speaking. “If you ever need to stop me, you need white metal. It upsets the balance of the beast in my blood – the wounds don’t heal.”

Karine said softly, “Kale came here to find help, Ecko. And we can help you too –”

“Just wait... wait.” Inundated with impossibility, swamped by everything that was happening around him, Ecko’d backed right up to the wall. “What’re you, some kinda werewolf? With those moons? How the fuck does that – ?”

“It’s not the moons,” Kale said. “The beast... gets away from me. I came here to find help, to learn control before...” His expression twisted, but not with anger. “I suppose we’re all crazed, in our own ways.”

Karine said gently, “Believe it or not, you’re among friends.”

Ecko said, his mind still reeling, “Shit, this place is a fucking loony bin.”

She grinned. “Kale’s a beast. I’m a political outcast – small matter of an – ah – admirer I really didn’t want to marry. Sera, downstairs, is a Games Champion – he killed nine opponents in a bout he was told to lose. Silfe’s a runaway. Everyone here has a history.”

“I feel so much better.”

“Look, we’ll leave you in peace for a bit longer,” Karine said. “You’ve got a lot take in. I’ll go see how the Bard is doing with your room. In the meantime –” she went to lay a hand on his arm, but he backed up “– trust us. Whatever else happens from this point on, this can be your home. If you want it.”

* * *

Ecko’s room was high under the vaulted beams and looked like something off some medieval film set. The wood was warm and rich – floor, beams, an old table and bench. There was leather on the seat coverings and pale, wax candles. Wooden shutters covered the window and an old rug covered the floor. Between the beams, the walls were brickwork, decorated with old pictures, and with hooks where the Bard had taken down his “souvenirs”.

Half enchanted and half scathing, he checked it for hiding places, verified and listed his equipment, swung himself onto a beam and waited.

As soon as this place settled down, he was gonna get some fucking bearings, case it from penthouse to basement. He needed understanding, needed to know what was out there. And he needed equipment. Currency. Weapons. Food. Maps. Kit to flee with – or to build a cache.

Too many surprises. He wasn’t being caught with his kacks down again.

Carefully draping the folds and curves of his cloak, he dissolved silently into the room’s darkness.

And he waited.

* * *

It was warm.

Locked into his stealth position, he remained still as the building slowly softened into silence around him. He heard doors opening and closing, voices laughing outside. After a while, feet moved up and down the creaking stairs and Ecko labelled them mentally – the implacable stamp that had to be Sera, Karine quick and light footed, Kale unhurried. The Bard’s boots were easy to identify – though heavier than he might have guessed.

Upstairs, doors banged. One by one, the tavern’s staff returned to their rooms and settled for the night.

As the quiet swelled, his throat started to close with rising pressure. He began to doubt, pointless fears dancing at the corners of his awareness. Am I dreaming? Am I fucking dead? He told himself it didn’t matter either way – he was here and he’d better just get on with it.

Food. Weapons.

Understanding.

The doubts laughed at him again, in the darkness they sounded like Eliza, like Lugan. Chances of successful adjustment increasing: 34.74%

Would he even recognise what he needed? He was lost, betrayed, naked in the field once more. He was missing the cornerstones of his existence. No plastics, no metal. No communication, no information. No drugs, no pharmaceuticals. No branding, no packaging, no labels. Where did they get clean water? Where did they go to the john?

Mockery rang increasingly loud in the hush. The room’s very simplicity became unsettling. He clung to his beam as if everything else would fade into nothing around him.

Where the fuck was he?

A feminine voice cursing made him start. He heard the Bard’s rich, distinctive chuckle, and the faint glimmer of light beyond his room went out.

Sudden, utter blackness.

Silence.

He was swallowed by them, abruptly alone, so fucking alone – an illegal alien in a crappy backwater culture. He froze, stock-still. Childhood fears – he dare not move or speak or turn, because if he acknowledged the beast of the darkness, it would pounce...

He was holding his breath.

His heatseeker showed him only infinitesimal, subtle shifts that made the darkness deep as nightmare – there wasn’t enough illumination for his starlites.

He couldn’t even see himself. Only the wood under his fingertips told him he existed, that Eliza hadn’t flicked the big red switch marked “OFF”.

Was she watching him? Out there in the darkness? Could she feel what he felt? Was this... was this supposed to teach him a fucking lesson of some kind?

Yeah.

You.

Bitch.

The snarl of defiance was reflex, it rippled through him like the first whisper of the tsunami. His expression twisted, he inhaled and his adrenals kicked. The lightning thrill of energy slashed a sudden, whetted grin across his face. Challenge him , would she? The muscles through his back and legs coiled, anticipating.

Were you fucking laughing? At me?

Sudden, sharp focus. Comprehension. Sartori.

There was no fear here!

The blackness was home, it was his and he understood it – he was the beast in the fucking darkness. It had been his cover, his cloak, his friend, his best weapon. One more thing to add to the list of shit he’d left behind...

...ohhhh yeah, the fucking light.

No streetlights, no aircars, no hoverdrones, no cameras, no fucking electricity.

He found himself trembling, elation and adrenaline making the corners of his vision spark with realisation – a realisation of total, unmatched ability.

He was unique; he was all-powerful, superhuman. He could pull shit this world had never even fucking heard of. All the dark, Bogeyman dreams of his childhood were here. They were in the darkness round him.

Only waiting for him to take hold of them.

Oh yeah .

As he dropped silently from the beam and carefully paced the distance to the unseen door, his blade-sharp grin cast a black reflection in his thoughts. This was it all fucking right.

This was Living The Nightmare.

* * *

Turning through an approximate L-shape of ground, The Wanderer was too simple to even offer him a challenge.

It slept oblivious – the only warmth a blur of feline, creeping on silent paws. The critter’s ignorance amused him. Navigating by heat, touch, simple mathematics, years of recon memorised the layout and brought him down to the bar.

Pub.

Taproom.

What- ever.

Yeah, like whoever designed this should’ve left neat, clearly labelled ration packs laying in obscure corners, plus hard cash and some sorta silent missile weapon that didn’t involve feathers.