Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

“This is bullshit !” Ecko snarled back at him. “You can’t just sit on your fanny in here doing shit-all, waiting for... what? The sky to fall on your head? Your God of Evil to drop in for a chat and a pint of the good stuff? Go question the guy with the nartuk. You should be doin’ your investigation or whatever, not –”

“Investigation?” Roderick’s snarl marched Ecko’s own. “Ecko, I’ve been searching almost a hundred returns – I have dug every ruin, I have found every treasure, I have learned every tale, I have faced every foe. Wherever these alchemical creatures are coming from...”

“Gimme a map, already, I’ll tell you where they’re comin’ from. Where’s your realm of death and decay? Your pits of fire and mountains of ash? That’s where the source is, that’s where the Bad Guy always hangs out – hell, his shadow’s rising even now.” He sneered. “Let’s get our butts down there and wake him the fuck up. We can take him an espresso.”

“A what ?”

The tension in the room crested, paused, and shattered. Either side of the table, Ecko and the Bard were intent on each other – Ecko’s small, tight frame coiled in a crouch facing Roderick’s height and presence. Kale had quietly slipped away.

Then, as if Ecko had snapped his back like the fibres of the resin sword, the Bard dropped into his chair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softly. “Sera is asking about the nartuk, and we’ll learn what we can. But unless we see something more, I fear Vanksraat can’t shed the light we seek.”

“Save it.” Ecko’s snarl was subdued. “Feeling sorry for yourself won’t get you shit. Unless Eliza’s stuck me in some Kobayashi Maru , there’s a solution. Let’s go get it.” He blinked. “Unless you’re any good with pentagrams and goats?”

“When we come to the capital city, to Fhaveon, we can speak to Rhan. He is...” He stopped himself, then said, “...I shall be interested to see what Rhan makes of you, Ecko. Or perchance, if The Wanderer allows, I can take you to my home city, Avesyr, and the Ryll’s ever-falling water.” He stared at the broken sword for a moment, perhaps not even seeing it. “They will not welcome me.” Then a ghost of his former chuckle danced from the walls. “In the meantime, we can pray that our nartuk will give us some answers.”

8: TRIQUETA

THE RIBBON-TOWNS OF ROVIARATH AND THE CENTRAL VARCHINDE

The Wanderer thumped with noise.

The taproom was heaving with bodies and shouting and drunken laughter. The air was hot and close, it reeked of sweat and animal.

Crouched like a bilious gargoyle on the end of the bar, Ecko reckoned he was going certifiably fucking loopy. The noise and the stink were overpowering, nausea had closed his throat and his nerve endings were sparking with exasperation. All he wanted to do was get on with this, track down the Uberboss and kick the shit out of it.

Wasn’t that how this stuff worked?

The nartuk’s owner had told them a simple tale – that the thing had befriended them en route to the fiveday market at the local tithehall. The poor, clueless bastard seemed more upset by its death than by the fact that it was apparently a thousand years old.

Hell, wasn’t like they could even dissect the damn thing. Ecko would’ve given a hefty weight of that terhnwood stuff for some decent forensics.

Communications.

A fucking library.

That morning, they’d jumped from the Vanksraat riverside to the ramshackle unrolling of a Grassland “ribbon-town”: one of the twin, thin stretches of deadwood that bled out along the trade-roads from the major cities. The place was a dump, abundant in two things: dirt and poverty. The roadway looked like some jingle-booted sheriff should have a high noon shootout and leave the bodies to rot like the nartuk had done.

But noon had come and gone and no sheriff had manifest to demand his sippin’ whiskey. Now, the evening was warm, the sun low and red and fat. It rested on the rickety roofs and sent long, bloody shadows through the dust.

And Ecko was crouched on the bar top like a silent and stone thing, realising something that annoyed him...

He missed Lugan.

Missed his humour, his decisiveness, his forward motion. Lugan would’ve been on the move already, shaking shit down, sorting shit out. None of this “the world’s had a nightmare” crap.

Hell, he’d’ve been the one causing it.

Across the heave of bodies, the front doors were propped open and revellers spilled out into the dusty roadway, laughing. On a nearby bench, leaning back with his black boots on the table, Roderick lived up to his moniker with a stringed something-or-other that he apparently played with some skill. His listeners stamped their boots in rhythmic appreciation and sank more booze.

Ecko wanted to rail at him: Get up, already, ask some questions, detain someone, torture the shit outta something – just move! His adrenal boosting was misfiring, twanging on his nerve endings like anxiety. He flashed random crosshairs. Go on, kickstart it, you know you wanna ! Hell, a bust-up might shake something loose.

Lugan would’ve known the danger signs, distracted him, given him something else to focus on – in here, no one even looked up.

Behind the bar, Karine had a sweat on. She and Silfe tapped barrel after barrel. Every so often, Sera would stir himself to roll one away through the kitchen door, and then come back with a full one on his shoulder. There was no sign of Kale – only the lush food smells that the door wafted in Sera’s wake.

More stink.

Jeez, it was suffocating in here.

Ecko was used to people, the crush of the crowd, the press of flesh – but this? Too much reek, too much skin and dirt and resin and critter. The smells were closing in around him like street kid bullies; his guts were still playing up from the change in diet. Chrissakes, he couldn’t breathe.

You gotta love the grand-quest-fantasy-romance. No one tells you it comes with stink and gut ache and a lack of sanitary plumbing.

“Oi. Make yourself useful, mush. I need water.” Behind him, Karine lunged for another ceramic bottle. She was sharp as a knife, fast as a circus juggler. Arachnid eyes and feline reflexes and hands that were everywhere at once. Remembering to wink lasciviously at the lad ordering drinks, she chased Ecko with a foot. “Well go on then!”

“Who died and made you Empress?” Ecko half turned, found himself with a rope-handled bucket in his mottled mitt. He glared, his oculars flickering fire. “What am I, fucking staff now?”

“You live here, mush, you work.”

The lad paid for his drinks with a twist of something in a tiny cloth bag.

Salt? Sugar?

Columbian?

Ecko curled a black-toothed grin.

The lad grabbed his ale and retreated to safely. Muttering, Ecko took the pail and ducked out into the yard. Fucking with the drinkers was at least one way of cheering himself up.

* * *

When he returned, the room had stabilised, grown a tight edge of focus like the silent rasp of a whetstone.

His reactions instinctual, he handed over the bucket and was back on the bar top, crouched, cowl down, one shoulder tight against the wall. He curled still, adrenaline wary, nerves shivering with anticipation – but Sera stood casual, arms folded. Chrissakes, the doorman’d almost cracked a grin.

Curious, Ecko followed his gaze.

Well , he thought dryly, whaddaya know.

In the centre of the room, ten or so drinkers had collected loosely round a clutter of tables, others had gathered to watch. Flicking his targeters, Ecko took note of emblems stitched onto jackets, woven bands around wrists and forearms. Some of the drinkers had standardised weapons, bound into belt-rings by lengths of braided string.