Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

Standing in the open doorway, arms folded and watching the river, stood a silent, self-possessed man who turned and nodded at them as they came in. His pale hair shone in the sunshine and, like Karine, he seemed far too young.

There was a long scar across one of his ears.

“Ecko.” His voice was clear and calm – it was the voice that Ecko had heard when he’d awoken. “Welcome to The Wanderer. I’m Sera – I didn’t see you last night as you had so much to take in. Though, this morning, I fear you may have rather more.” There was no trace of humour in his expression or voice. “The city is about to land on our doorstep.”

City?

Almost in spite of himself, Ecko craned to look past where the man stood, flicking his anti-daz against the sun’s shine on the river. There was a boat full of people already halfway across, figures at the bow pointing and talking.

He groaned. “Jesus, do you people sleep?”

Karine said, “Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three. We’re two short. Can we get a messenger to go back to the bazaar – I’ll need at least fifteen more of the spirits and all the ales they’ve got. And wine – we’re close enough to Padesh to make it the good stuff. Kale needs fresh veg, whatever the farms have brought in.”

Roderick caught Ecko’s black gaze, and winked.

But Karine was not slowing down.

“Silfe,” she called to the waif, “can you get me the loose terhnwood? And the scales? And Sera, can you sort the loading? I don’t want the chain through here, take them round the back and load directly. When they’re done, send them to me.”

“Ecko,” Sera said. “How d’you fancy joining me on a loading crew?”

“How d’you fancy a new asshole?”

The pale-haired man turned fully from the view of the water. Ecko watched him, daring him to start – what’d they said about him killing nine people? – but he said only, “It seems we already have one.”

That one caught Ecko clean under his guard. He spluttered, “You –”

“Whoah.” Roderick placed a hand on Ecko’s shoulder. “It’s far too early to be starting fights. If you wait until after breakfast, we’ll all come outside and watch.”

“Yeah, maybe you can make a wager. ” Shaking off the contact, he looked for a corner, somewhere away from the door and the light and the banter and the incoming people. “I still dunno if I’m even staying... Jesus Christ enough already!”

Another door had banged open, startling him. This one loosed the scent of cooking flesh – blood-rich and suddenly, strongly reminiscent of his early childhood. Meat – real animal, raised and killed and carved and sold... The smell was powerful, enticing, slightly sickening. Echoes of his mother’s children’s home swamped him, too many people, too much noise, too much to take in...

For fucksake!

It was overpowering. He gripped the hard edges of Lugan’s lighter and backed to a table at the edge of the room.

Gave himself room to breathe.

The Bard ducked into the kitchen. Crouching on a corner seat and shrinking under his cowl, Ecko stared round at the taproom, at the sunlight, at the people, at the resin stuff – had they called it terhnwood? – hung on the walls.

Analysing. Critical.

Claustro.

He didn’t need this – if he could grab that , that and as much of the meat as he could carry...

...but he couldn’t bust outta here ’til he knew his ass from his elbow – some random critter would crunch him for a mid-morning snack. He had to get the Idiot’s Guide, the one-oh-one download as to what the hell happened next. Then, God of Evil or no God of Evil, something was gonna get its ass kicked.

“Are you hungry?” The Bard had returned with a pair of leather mugs in one hand. “Or are just wondering how much you can steal?”

Ecko glowered at him – shadow skinned, black eyed, black mouthed – his look could send hardened street warriors screaming home for Mommy.

Putting the mugs on the table, Roderick spun a chair round and sat astride it, its back between Ecko and himself.

“So,” he said, “welcome to your first morning.” When Ecko still glared, he grinned. “What can I tell you?”

“Gimme the short version. What I can eat, what’s gonna eat me, and where the Bad Guy’s at.”

“It’s a little more complex than that.”

“What – the God of Evil doesn’t have a bar tab?”

“He’s notoriously bad at trading for his ales... Look.” The Bard picked up his mug as if checking exasperation. “You understand the importance of reconnaissance, intelligence. Knowledge is something I’ve spent my life seeking, and the little I have is –” he gave a wry chuckle “– not nearly enough. I have only rumour, stealthing in the grass like a hunting bweao, and its source eludes me.”

Ecko bit back an immediate response and picked up his mug.

“Rumour of what?” The stuff inside was herbal, it smelled like old socks and green tea. He took a mouthful and scalded his tongue.

Outside, there were voices coming closer, and Roderick, with a glance over his shoulder at the door, began to speak more quickly.

“There is much lore you should know, Ecko, lore that I alone have use for – but I fear this morning, the Count of Time is against us. For now, I will say only this: that we of the Grasslands are no longer warriors. Our last war is forgotten, the memory discarded. Our Elementalists, the priests of the people, once teachers and guides, have long since faded into tavern-tales and trickery. The Powerflux, the surge of element to element across the world, is gone and lost.” He reached up, took a resin blade from the wall and laid it across the table. In the morning sun, it shone like gold; it was exquisitely decorated and there was a mark, a symbol of some sort, carved into it at the crossguard. It was significant, but for the moment, Ecko did not know why.

The Bard glanced again at the door. “With this long freedom from both strife and learning, we have become a culture dependent upon the cycles of our trade. Upon this. ” He turned the blade to catch the light. “As Fhaveon took power in the Varchinde, so she became the greatest source of terhnwood – this resin and fibre that makes our every quintessential craft and tool. The GreatHeart Rakanne gifted Fhaveon’s terhnwood to the plains in return for trade of wood, and stone, and food, and spice – and now, that trade is our lifeblood. To maintain that circulation, much of our population roves free, carrying craftmarked goods from bazaar to bazaar, from city to city, and this has swollen our trade-roads into ribbon-towns and markets and caravanserai. There are pirates, of course, and there are soldiers to face them; there are farmlands that tithe into the cities for terhnwood of their own. The system is complex, warded by craftmarks and tallies and tithehalls – Karine could explain such things to you more than I.”

“What – terhnwood makes your world go round?” Ecko wasn’t laughing. Something about the Bard’s plea was chillingly familiar.

Our last war is forgotten, the memory discarded.

There were feet getting closer on the path outside.

“We are complacent in our comforts,” Roderick said, “and ruled by our merchants. Our satisfaction is surpassed only by blindness. Yet now, rumours rise like figments, hauntings of imagination. And without our lore...”

There was a shadow in the doorway, the sound of feet on stone and an awkward throat-clearing. “Um. Hello?”

“Without our lore,” the Bard finished, “I fear they will surpass us and we will be lost.”

At the door loitered a small gaggle of locals who’d paused, peering into the building as if it would haze out of existence like a mirage. As the Bard turned, they shoved one of their number forwards – a young man, a heavy bag in one hand and a hat wrung to a rag in the other. From his garments, Ecko’s mind instantly labelled him “farmer”.