Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

The thing was huge, but only half complete: head and torso and arms, sprawled on cracking tiles. Each hand was blunt like a shovel but more powerful than an earthquake. It dug them – slam – into the ground and tried to drag itself forwards, a handspan at a time. It was terrifying, somehow tragic. It had no expression on its stone face. From the grim slit of a mouth came the rumbling throb of pain that carried through the city’s stonework. The noise was in the bones behind Rhan’s ears; he could taste it in his throat.

It dragged itself a little further, piteous despite its size. Behind where it struggled, two huge stones had exploded, apparently spewing this thing out of the wall. The stones below had different markings – if this thing’d ever had legs, they’d been spat out somewhere else.

Everything was covered in stone dust and rubble.

Slam! It dug one hand downwards, splitting the tiles end to end. Slam! Fighting for every centimetre of ground, it dragged itself to the front of The Wanderer, looked up.

Rhan didn’t need his elemental vision to see the tiles splintering beneath its weight. It was pure stone, a wall carving come to life. And it reached one hand up towards the window where Roderick stood silent.

The Bard stared, bereft of speech and breath.

“Wait!” Rhan was tense, almost shaking. He came forwards, slowly, his elemental awareness screaming alarm.

But he laid one white hand on the creature’s head.

“I’m here,” he said softly. “This is Fhaveon and I will never leave her. Your time is long gone. Rest.”

The thing paused, struggled to lift its torso so it could look at him out of an eyeless stone face. Gently, Rhan stroked its head.

“Rest,” he repeated.

It made a last, huge effort, held its hand out to him.

Then it collapsed into sand with a sigh that might’ve been relief.

* * *

Back in the taproom, Roderick flicked his violet gaze at the Seneschal.

“Rhan,” he said softly. The tone of his voice sent shudders down the Seneschal’s back. “What the rhez is going on?”

14: MERCHANT

THE GREAT FAYRE AND THE HALLS OF LARRED JADE, ROVIARATH

Triqueta hated the rain.

But in the aftermath of the fighting, it suited her comedown. It hammered relentless, gusting across the plains wind. It soaked through her garments and made her skin sting with chill. Her overhood was flapping in her eyes and hair was smeared to her face in itchy strands. If she lowered her head, water dripped from the front of her cowl onto her saddle pommel, running down the darkening leather.

She had no bridle – she was lifelong Banned and had no need of one. Her hands clutched her cloak in a vain attempt to keep sheltered.

Stupid Grassland weather. You don’t get this in the desert.

There were just occasions when Triq forgot that, desert blooded she may be, but she’d actually never crossed the Yevar Mountains and seen the Red Sands for herself.

Under her, her little mare was equally dejected, her head down and her mane sodden. As the wind caught it, it fluttered hopeless like a palomino-coloured rag.

The monsters seemed like a dream, a lifetime ago. Triq’s energy had been soaked through and was running down the mare’s legs to be lost in the soaking grass that rippled like a great, grey ocean.

She peered at the darkening evening sky and muttered curses.

Throughout the day, the clouds had risen before them like great wings, mantling vast and grey over the mountains. Squalls of drizzle had harried them like harbingers. They’d pushed their pace as fast as they dared, confronted by breaths of cold that worried at hems and hoods.

Loosed across the massive emptiness of the open Varchinde, a storm could be a terrifying thing.

We’ll stay off the trade-road , Ress had said, Run parallel. Less trouble.

He was right – this close to the Great Fayre, piracy was rifle and the ribbon-towns notoriously opportunistic. And if Roderick’s theory was right, no other predators would come anywhere near where the monsters had been.

So they were still in the grass.

The main roadway ran by the river to the south. If the air had been brighter she could’ve seen it – a line of grubby, brown shanties that grew slowly more sturdy as they came closer to the city itself. But already, it was darkening. Somewhere behind the clouds, the sun was sinking to a swollen red death upon the distant peaks of the Kartiah and the sky was deepening to a rich, dark indigo that swelled like a bruise.

Yep, Triq was in a really lousy mood.

As they came to the city, to the filthy patchwork sprawl of the Great Fayre, the rain rallied and attacked anew. It hissed with fury, sharp and fierce. Hunching even further, Triq swore, lowered her head and grabbed her cloak. Over them, the rocklight shine of the Lighthouse Tower became a smear of grey.

On his cart, Feren loosed fevered pain.

Life still fluttered in his heart; in his head, there were figments tormenting him.

The rain squalled and battered at them all.

“Go left!” Ress bawled. The cart chearl had lowered his head, blowing snot and water.

Yowling in the gaps in the walls, the wind swung sharply round to the north and the grass tops surrendered, shimmering flat to the soil.

Triq shouted above the noise, “What? Why?”

The voice of the river was rising.

Ress pointed. “Flag on the gatehouse!” he said. “City’s on Watch!”

Feren called aloud, unintelligible syllables.

“I see it!” Triqueta spat water and blinked it out of her eyes. “Go, we’re with you! Jayr?”

“Yes!” Beside her, disdaining cloak or overhood and soaked to her skin, Jayr stroked the injured gelding’s nose and he nudged her with his shoulder, nearly pushing her over. In spite of his hurt, he paced forwards, ears up, as if he knew that help lay ahead. Jayr said softly, barely heard, “We’ll get you some help, we will.”

“More likely we’ll get him boiled down for glue.” The blackening wind snatched Triq’s sceptical comment and threw it skyward, unheard.

* * *

Grown like a fungus round two thirds of Roviarath’s walls, the Great Fayre was the trade hub of the Varchinde, focus of the plainlands’ perpetually transient population – and there was a rhez of a lot of it.

Triqueta knew the Fayre well: she’d worked here, loitered and plotted and diced her way through its staff and its stalls, earned its respect. Here, you could barter for your home or your soul, trade your life or your time or your skin; here, you’d find wine, company, thievery and every manner of scheming. Teeming with the urgency that lurked outside the city walls, the Fayre had swollen into a cheerfully dilapidated mess that welcomed traders from all across the world.

It thrived, even under the savagely driving rain.

Scholar or no, Ress was unbothered by the filth and the chaos – his returns had taught him a thing or two about markets. Jayr, however, eyed it like some sprawling predator, her scars bright with water and tension. Triq hoped she wouldn’t do anything loco.

They moved through it slowly, watching.

The noise was incredible.

Around them, the Fayre was a melting pot of hope and ambition and poverty and decadence. Desperation and opportunism followed them – beggars and panhandlers, wide-mouthed children and despairing, discarded humanity. Under the rain, hands were held out from all sides, pleas for help and attention. Several times, Ress had to forcibly repel a grip from the cart.

They slowed to a crawl, swamped by bustle and motion and racket.

“Padeshian dyes, lady? The finest in the central plainland!”

Between the stalls, Triq caught a glimpse of flame – guttering under the weather. A flamboyant woman in bright scarlet carried fire on her open hand, breathed it from her lips. She’d gathed a small crowd – mostly children, tugging at their parents’ hands. Jayr gaped for a moment, but Triq chuckled – genuine elemental attunement was even less likely than...