Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

“Can’t you see it...?” the boy said. Slumping now, Feren turned to look at the apothecary, struggled to focus. “The mountains... the shadow... I told her...”

Triqueta said, “Poor kid.”

“Brave kid,” Ress said grimly. He smoothed Feren’s sweating hair, gentle. “Rest now. You’re on the edge of hope. We reach Roviarath before the dawn.”

“We’d better,” Triq said. “Whatever they are, soon they’ll know that we know...”

The apothecary paused to look down at the boy, across at both women, then out towards the east, the Monument and the far distant sea. The Bard’s madness was touching him, twisting around the questions in his head, an odd, creeping sensation: Something isn’t right.

He said, “I don’t like this.”

Triqueta glanced at Ress. “You? Not got a rational explanation?”

He snorted. “First thing – make sure Feren’s safe and cared for. Then, if Larred Jade hasn’t got answers, I’m going downriver.” He shook his head. “Light-alchemy, impossible monsters. Maybe the library has something.”

“You’re going to Amos?” Triq stared.

“He’s hurt.” Jayr was stroking her gelding’s long nose with one gentle, callused hand – and almost pouting. “I want to find these things.”

“He needs time and rest,” Ress said. “And I’ll need a guard for the trip. Triq’ll take Jade’s patrols to find this thing.” He patted Jayr’s shoulder.

“The Great Library’s a ruin,” Triqueta said. “Only thing you’ll find in there is mulch.”

“Not if you know where to look.” He gave a brief grin. “Now, that esphen we were supposed to have for dinner – where’d it go? Don’t know about you two – but I’m starved.”

12: COURAGE

THE WANDERER, AMOS

Deep in the tavern’s cellars, high in the packed-tight shelving, Ecko had been acquiring stuff.

He’d clambered about like some strange four-limbed insect, scrabbling from stack to stack and shelf to shelf, exploring, learning, scavenging. One thing remained true wherever you were – you always needed a cache.

And this was a helluva place to get one.

Being down here was enclosed, familiar. It felt safe – even Kale the not-werewolf wouldn’t find him in all of this. And anyhow, if these cellars didn’t wind up in some underground tunnel system, then he was a monkey’s uncle.

In the layers of shadow, no one could see him grin.

Craft tools – tick ; vials of toxins and herbs – tick . The substances were unfamiliar, but the learning might be fun. Explosives – a little harder to come by. At some point, basic pomegranate grenades were a must – and he was so gonna be inventing gunpowder as soon as he got all the bits...

Stick that up the God of Evil’s scaly ass and light the fuse.

He turned another corner, shelves and heaps and dust tails. There was a sliver of pale glitter over his head, moonlight on a tiny, cracked-mica pane. This was the most fun he’d had since he got here – with a little luck and a little chemistry, he’d have the Industrial Revolution in full fucking swing. Plus, there hadda be a giant-rat infestation down here some place...

The Bard’s cellars, though, were rodent-free. Wines were stored in racks of ceramic and pottery – a multitude of shapes, colours and labels that looked like a collection of souvenirs. Wooden ale barrels were more familiar; spirits were stored in squat, dark bottles that might’ve been stitched leather. There was no glass, no metal and a distinct lack of dangerous chemical compounds.

Now that , Ecko figured, just wasn’t fucking fair.

He kept looking.

Somewhere over his head, it was deep night. The Banned were still singing – he could hear them, raucous and off key, stamping out the time. The goldie girl had vanished maybe an hour or so before. He still had her dice – six-sided but the corners blunted and the symbols unfamiliar – now added to his growing stash of goodies.

Yeah, Eliza, Let’s see what the pattern does with that decision, huh?

Ecko had made a den high in one of the racks. As he’d explored outwards, he’d found that the walls were brick, the mortar smooth. Under his feet, the flagstone floor was cold. Once, a flitting shape had made him start, but it was only the catlike thing he’d seen once before, lithe and warm to his heatseeker. It blinked at him and was gone.

Not a single secret passage had given itself up to his dextrous touch.

He’d passed through Kale’s pantry, eying the bunches of greenery, the dried and pickled vegetables, the shelves of unfamiliar produce. Some of it he knew by name, but he wasn’t convinced he trusted anything that didn’t come in shrink-wrapped plastic. Food that looked like animal still kinda freaked him out – never mind the fact he had no fucking clue what the animals were. Little fat fuckers, bug eyed and skinless, hung upside-down by threading one ankle though a hole in the other...

From somewhere, a clattering made him start, a burst of laughter and boisterous comments. The noise made him curl back against the shelving, though it was a good distance away.

There was no one down here.

Yeah, this is my place now.

Ghost silent, he crept deeper.

As he moved onwards, he found it was harder to navigate. Tall shelves and sharp turns completely defeated his telescopics. Narrow corridors wound tight between overladen racks hung with soft streamers of dust. The floor left odd, uneven steps waiting to catch his cloak hem and make him stumble. This was Malice in Wonderland, some fucking loony trip, confused and chaotic and mazelike and thrilling... Maybe, if he went far enough, he’d uncover the prison, or the magical portal to the Major Bad Guy’s front room. Maybe he’d find some skeleton from the Bard’s closet – or a forgotten Questing Hero who’d died from boredom and bad beer.

Deeper.

Slowly, the light paled and grew thinner. The shadows climbed higher and wound round the stacks like smoke. The shelves were packed even tighter, here. It was a warren of nameless stuff, layers of wooden boxes that hadn’t been moved in years. There were piles of junk in corners, lying in wait like creatures of the dark. Now, skitterings hinted at inhabiting critters – apparently the cat had a union. There were no cobwebs, but the dust was as thick as spider-silk armour and unfamiliar beetley things crawled over it.

Almost nothing had a label.

Jeez, it’s like Christmas in here!

Chrissakes, did they even know what half this shit was? Karine must have a full database in her fucking head. Nothing had numbers – was this what she recorded with her endless tally marks?

A sudden, rhythmic stomping shook the shelves and made him grin blackly in the almost-dark...

...and then he wondered just how far away that sound had actually been.

Shit.

Aw c’mon already, I was kidding...

The Wanderer’s cellars were larger than the floor of the tavern, a helluva lot larger. Surely there had to be more than booze and shopkeeper basics down here. Where were the rings and the gems and all that crap? Where was the cache of weapons and armour? Where was the monster and the big ol’ chest with the poisonous lock?

His grin grew, black and wicked in the half-light.

Where was the secret fucking door?

In fact – sod that – where was the thing that made the tavern work? The control room? The magical whosit? He’d give his carbon-black eyeteeth to know how to drive this thing.

Deeper.

Creeping in silence and wordless hope – there was so gonna be treasure down here somewhere.