Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

The final side of the city, facing the water, was the great Break Wall that ran sheer and mighty all the way down to the sea.

From the plains Fhaveon may look soft and wealthy, but Saluvarith had built her as a fortress – as a fortress against the water. The city had been made to stand and face her foe – and that foe was not the gentle grass that now crept softly over her hemline.

So many things, forgotten.

Rammouthe Island, barely a league across the strait, was beautiful – a haven for creatures and birds, for rare grasses and trees that grew colossal and unhindered. The city had been built to defend against a foe long forgotten; her people cared no more.

Only Rhan, defender and champion of the city and of the plainland entire – he, too, awaited the foe that the Council no longer acknowledged.

Above the Bard’s head, a single bird hovered, watching the life below.

Roderick sighed, stretched, and went back to the building.

“There you are, you bastard.” Rhan’s sardonic bass was unmistakeable. In the warm, dusty dimness he seemed almost to carry his own light. “I hope you’re awake, because we’ve got a sod of a problem.”

* * *

“Samiel’s teeth.” Sat at the bar, an empty goblet in front of him, Rhan turned an arched white eyebrow on the Bard. “Guardian of the Ryll, you can’t find your arse with a signpost. I’ve got a real crisis on my hands, here – what in the name of Vahl Zaxaar’s bloodied batwings are you prattling about?”

“I’m not jesting.” To Rhan’s eyes, Roderick looked like he’d spent the night wrestling for his masculine virtue and losing. “This is all –”

“It’s all a game. I’ve been telling you that for returns.” Rhan clapped the Bard’s shoulder, his grin affectionate. Roderick was half crazed, but his heart was true and his insight considerable. And for a mortal, he’d lived a sod of a long time – probably why he was slightly unhinged. “And find me the cellen, will you, I don’t know what this stuff is but I’m pretty sure it’s been drunk once already.”

For a moment, Roderick blinked at him, his gaze fragmenting with frustration. “By the Gods, Rhan, have you heard as much as a word? Everything is in motion, the Count of Time gathers pace. Can’t you feel – ?”

“Enough drama, you’ll strain something.” The Seneschal’s voice gentled, but he gestured with the goblet. “This ‘Ecko’ character of yours –”

“He’s loose, uncontrolled. Perhaps he went after the girl.”

“He wouldn’t be the first one to make that mistake.”

“Or after the Banned.”

“They’ll carry his bollocks as a battle standard.” The Seneschal thought about this for a moment, then he flickered a frown. “Let me get this straight. Your Ryll-born vision is telling you – what? This missing girl, this injured kid, these monsters, what in Samiel’s name do they have to do with fires in the terhnwood crop?”

Roderick met his gaze, said faintly acidly, “Have you not felt it, Master of Elemental Light?”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Roderick’s smile was bleak, weary. “The boy’s tale – the creatures he described – they have sent ripples through my being as though I should know what they are. As though I should remember. This is alchemy of legend, it has not been seen since Tusienic times. The rumours are scattered but they grow – I have to bring this to the Council –”

“Sadly, Ress was right about that much – you can’t take ‘legends’ to the Council, they’ll laugh you out of the hall.” Rhan’s perpetually wry, slightly self-deprecating tone took the sting from the comment. “Again.” He grinned. “Look. We’ve got a problem that’s actually going to make them sit up – unexplained fires are real, tangible threats.” He grinned. “Trust me. I’ll make them hear you.”

Roderick rummaged behind the bar, found a decorated carafe and a goblet. Nodding his thanks, Rhan picked up the wine and chugged it straight. The cellen was quality stuff – he could feel his energy levels rising.

“By the Gods.” The Bard shook his head. “You have no manners at all.”

“I’ve got them exactly when and where I need them.” Rhan passed the carafe over. “Go on, it won’t hurt you.”

Roderick put it down, said, “The world’s fear is coming close – close enough to feel, to touch – !”

“This is the Council. They want terhnwood and power, more tithes from the farmlands, more incoming trade. They don’t want saga stuff – ruined cities, half man, half horse, dark champions from other worlds – and, frankly, you don’t want to look any damned crazier than you are.”

“You’re not hearing me.”

“I hear you fine.” Rhan sounded exasperated. “This is the Council of Nine – the rulers of the Varchinde.” He dropped his voice. “It has other concerns – the Lord Foundersson Demisarr is not a well man, and I must watch the Merchant Master Phylos like a hunting bweao. And this morning, the fires are spreading. ” Rhan took another hefty chug from the carafe. “I don’t need to tell you what would happen to Fhaveon – to the Varchinde entire – if we have a problem with the harvest.”

Roderick picked up the goblet. The sunlight from the windows caught his hair making it glow almost purple – the rich, dark colour of his Tundran blood. “This is all connected, somehow, somewhere. Dear Gods, Rhan...”

“Of course it’s connected, I’m not damned blind. I’ve called the Council to meet at the death of the sun. Before that, I want to see the evidence for myself – and I want you to come with me. Bear witness, if you like. With a little wit and some – ah – vocal dexterity –” he grinned “– I think we can make this work for both of us. Kill two daemons with one holy object, as it were – what the rhez was that?”

A sudden commotion had come from outside – from the deserted, grass-grown streets of the skirting. There was a cough of dust, and a loud rumble of crumbling stonework.

Rhan was at the door, his skin suddenly pricking and his elemental awareness shivering the sounds in his ears.

There, in the corner of two walls, at the base of a pillar, something stirred.

The building was a tithehall, a long, low shadow – it hadn’t been used in returns. Once, it would have been one of many nodes upon the city’s outskirts, the central storage points for the incoming farmlands’ grain and meat and crafting. Once, there would have been a foodhall here, a gathering point, a fiveday bazaar, a centre for the complex filaments of distribution that spread the tithed goods throughout this local part of the city. There would have been soldiers, traders, travellers, and clerks. Pirates. Poachers. Opportunists.

Now, there was nothing. Only the cold store, lined in stone, and a shocked concussion that was rippling outwards through the morning air, the grass. A straying scavenger snarled and fled.

And there was something over there, something that stank of decaying air.

Behind Rhan, Roderick was on his feet, hand instinctively going for a weapon he hadn’t carried in returns. A shock of real fear ricocheted through Rhan’s form.

And a lightning shock of exhilaration.

Then there was the chilling scraping of stone on stone, the sound of something heavy being dragged.

There was groaning – a deep grumble of pain.

Rhan could feel the noise, like an avalanche or tree falling, a rumbling through his belly and the soles of his feet.

The Bard had moved for the window. Through the doorway, Rhan could see something, something low to the ground as if it had fallen.

It was trying to move.

Samiel ’s...