Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

The Bard recoiled as if he’d been struck. For a moment, he sought words and found nothing. Ecko waited for the comeback, then snorted pure scorn.

“You’re telling me all merry hell has just broken loose on your doorstep – and the best you can do is sit here and pray that your fucking pub makes your next decision for you?”

He crossed his arms, waited for the comeback. Come on then...

“Ecko.”

The word was flat, potent enough to rock him where he stood, his mottled skin and black eyes and black sneer all shaded by his cowl.

He snarled, “What?”

The Bard was on his feet, now, tall and dark.

“This isn’t cowardice – this is the decision. Ress must rouse Larred Jade. We must go to Rhan and to the Council in Fhaveon.”

“What? More delegation?”

“You say you’re missing information.” Roderick’s smile was mirthless, the shattered gleam was back in his eyes. “There’s so much you still don’t know –”

“I fuckin’ knew it.”

“Rhan, Ecko. Let’s start with Rhan.” The Bard’s voice rose, shivering the pre-dawn air. “You jest about facing some ‘God of Evil’, about how your purpose is to defeat them? What if I told you that you’re wrong? What if I told you that the Godsfather Samiel sent an envoy, a creature of white warfare, of pure elemental light, to be the guardian of this world, and to guard and guide her?”

Ecko thought, Oh you hafta be kidding me...

“We have our champion Ecko. Rhan is that creature, he is this world’s true hero. He’s our mentor and warden and he’s lived in the Lord City four hundred returns. He stands at the right hand of the Lord Founderson. He defends stone and soil and flesh and family.” Roderick held up the feather. “I’m mortal, with a task to perform. My time is long, even for one of Tundran blood, but it is finite. Rhan is something else entirely. What did you think this was?”

“Actually I thought it was a pen. ” The comeback was quick, but Ecko’s thoughts were a seethe of darkness. In the still, dim air of the taproom, the rising shadows jeered him.

There’s so much you still don’t know...

Roderick said, every word a barb, “You’ve made a short-sighted and frankly quite arrogant assumption, but perhaps your future is not that clear or simple?”

His words were cut short by a sharp judder, a shock that rippled through the air like a concussion.

“Our ‘God of Evil’ already has his enemy,” Roderick said softly. He was a figure of gloom and air and strength and now madness, the shadows of the taproom rose around him in billowing darkness, the light from the feather illuminated the lunacy in his gaze. “The world has brought you here for a purpose, certainly, but we have to understand how you fit with her vision. We can’t just – !”

The floor shook, from one end to the other.

“You crazy-ass motherfucker! I’m not...? Then what the hell am I...?”

The floor shook again.

“The world’s vision, Ecko! Her nightmare! There is something else, something greater, something vast and timeless and forgotten. And things have come to pass this evening – critical things. It all starts from here, Ecko – your foe, your fight. We must go to Fhaveon! Rhan must see us! He will help us understand!”

“ Batshit! ” Baffled, reeling with confusion, Ecko’s words were reflex – he had no idea what to think. “You’re a coward and a fucking liar!” This world had a champion? This world had a hero? He didn’t understand, he didn’t even want to – all he knew was that he was floundering. He was surfing the shaking floor over a sea of what-the-fuck and he no longer knew what the hell was going on. Every time he thought he understood...

...that fucking bitch Eliza threw him a curve ball.

If she’d built this world for him – why pre-program a ready-coded champion? An uber-hero superbeing just gagging to spank the Lord of Chaos’s ass the second his alarm went off? Was she trying to make Ecko take second place, learn humility – give someone else the glory?

Become a “team player”?

Well, fuck that . If eating shit was his exit door? He’d burn this place to the fucking ground first.

You hear that you bitch? I’ll burn it down !

In his head, clear as an aural upload, he heard smoothly androgynous tones, Success of scenario projected at 02.64%. Awaiting further parameters.

Collator.

His anger froze into fear, and shattered.

The voice had been so clear in his mind that he fought the urge to spin round, to turn his oculars on every corner of the taproom, on the tables, the bar top, the fireplace, the door... his adrenals were kicked, he was shaking with the stress of his restraint.

Move and countermove. He could never win. This was in his head. He was hearing voices for fuck’s sake. His grip on this reality was slipping like his grip on Grey’s fucking wall – he half expected the whole scene to dissolve to greenscreen any second. He had no control over his own mind – Eliza could replace his memories, make him hear and see things, jump him round like a circus freak hit with an electroprod... and now, quite literally, he’d lost the fucking plot. If Rhan was the ready-programmed hero...

The air was starting to twist.

...then why the hell was he here?

The tavern juddered again. Like a bad trip, any second now...

Roderick’s grin spread wider than his face. He loomed with power and the light from his eyes glittered in shards of splintered amethyst. Any moment now, he was going to laugh – and that laugh would echo across the grass and the tavern would ride it, twisting out of reality only to fall into existence far, far away from where the Banned girl had gone...

The world slewed around the edge of the plughole, and it started to scream.

But Ecko made his decision, and the pattern be damned. Faster than the light, faster than the darkness, he was gone.

PART 3: WAVES

13: RHAN

FHAVEON

Rhan Elensiel, Lord Seneschal of Fhaevon, Foundersson’s Champion, Gift of of the Godsfather and First Voice of the Council of Nine, was having trouble waking up.

The clear night air had congealed into a milky early morning. His mouth tasted like an esphen’s backside and some motherless bastard had stuffed his head with grass. The wisdom of four hundred returns had taught Rhan many things – among them, the ability to know when he’d overdone it.

Dear Gods. You’d think I’d’ve learned by now.

With an effort, he sat up, rubbed a hand through his dishevelled white hair and ground his gaze into focus.

Samiel’s bollocks.

He’d passed out in his front room again, apparently not able to make it as far as the door. Across the tall windows, his shutters were closed and the lingering smoke coiled though stripes of early sunlight. Around the room was a scatter of debris: carafes and goblets, empty food platters, long-stemmed pipes tumbled free from their stands. There were also various recumbent friends, in various stages of nakedness, each snoring gently in the aftermath of the previous night’s revelry.

Oh, all right. The thought was sarcastic, it’d been a very long time since he’d actually given a shit. I’ve really overdone it this time.

But remind me why it matters?

With a faint, sardonic chuckle, Rhan sat up, creaking his heavy, pale shoulders to ease the knots in his back. His neck cracked. Immortality, for the Gods’ sakes – frankly, it was overrated.