Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

Waiting.

And the voices floated up through the cold like mist.

“It seems we’ve got a rather... serious piece of business, my friends.” The Lord Demisarr had a slight hunch, his head twitched, birdlike. As he put his hood back, Roderick saw the early grey that threaded his tied-back blonde hair. “A threat to the very lifeblood of the city, it seems. Ah, Rhan?”

At the head of his side of the table and at the Foundersson’s right hand, Rhan’s power and presence were a relief – he was the only thing that brought life and light to this chill room. Above Rhan’s head, a carved creature plummeted, burning, through the sky and then rose and fought for the city’s survival.

“I’ve been out as far as Ikira and Teale,” he said. “The fires are scattered, spontaneous and unexplained. Enough of them, and they will threaten the harvest. Runners have been sent to the closest farmlands.”

Roderick had seen the damage for himself – craters and black ash, the soil hard baked, cracked as though from some colossal impact. The fires were completely random – there was no pattern or purpose that he could understand.

After a pause, Rhan said, “I believe the fires to have an elemental cause.”

His words caused a ripple of shock about the table.

“Love of the Gods, Seneschal!” At the Foundersson’s immediate left sat a small, taut man, his cloak marked with the pennon-on-spear soldier’s insignia – this was Mostak, Demisarr’s younger brother and military commander of both the city and the Varchinde itself. He was similar in features, yet a clear gaze and a solid jaw had replaced the flicker of his brother’s nervousness. “At this time of the return, fires are commonplace. Their cause is pure idleness. I will send a man to each manor to ensure that the farmers watch their crops, and that we are secure against any failure of tithe.”

“A necessary contingency.” Beside Rhan sat a man of massive height and breadth, typically Archipelagan. His hair was the colour of metal and his features were haughty and strong enough to be cruel. The force of his presence made him appear to sit at the table’s centre. This was one of the single most powerful figures in the Grasslands – Phylos, Merchant Master, lead voice of the Terhnwood Harvesters’ Cartel and the ultimate controller of the Varchinde’s cycling trade. Rhan had spoken of him many times – and always with distrust.

“These things can be controlled,” Phylos said, “before they escalate into idiocy.” The last word was a thrown weapon. Phylos’s gaze flicked sideways to where Rhan sat. Dismissed him. “The Cartel will send runners to each manor to accompany the soldiery and carry news of increased city tithes. We must be secure.”

Something about Phylos’s look to Rhan sparked Roderick’s nervousness to real fear. Already, Rhan’s carefully structured plan was being diverted by selfishness, by a tangle of old tensions and conflicting priorities, by personal differences and political strivings, by desires so far from his own... He was beginning to understand why the Council couldn’t help him.

But he had no choice. He had to speak and he had to make them understand. If only he had something he could show them...

Again, he cursed inwardly that he did not have Ecko with him. Ecko, for all his scorn, would have made them take notice.

That thought was enough raise a brief, wry smile.

But the expression was short-lived.

“That will have consequences, Phylos.” Next to the Merchant Master sat the Justicar Halydd, elderly and spear straight, correct and merciless in her mandate. She’d been a soldier all her life and saw the world around her in very severe terms. Her cloak bore the image of the executioner’s sword. “If we demand greater tithes, the farmlands will become restive.”

“Then we’re agreed.” Phylos’s gesture indicated the matter was closed. “From now, each central manor brings their own farms’ foods or terhnwood straight into the relevant tithehall. We will secure our surplus and the Varchinde will continue to trade.”

In one speech, he had assumed control.

But.

Secure our surplus? Roderick’s finger-tapping increased. But the fires are genuine – and if you tithe the manors more harshly...

“I don’t think – !” Demisarr started.

Phylos was still speaking. “Mostak, the city’s soldiery may be needed to secure and defend the stockpile.”

“I don’t think – !” The Foundersson tried again.

But Mostak was answering, “Additional forces can be deployed as necessary.”

“Then the matter is closed,” Phylos said calmly. “All in favour?”

“I don’t think – !”

“That’s enough !” The bellow came from a woman, square faced and strong shouldered, dark of skin and hair, standing at the foot of the table. The Council silenced as she spoke – Roderick realised she was Valicia, Demisarr’s wife. “Pray silence , for the Lord Foundersson.”

Rhan grinned at her. Mostak nodded stern acquiescence. Phylos shot the woman a look that could have scoured flesh from bone. She flicked an eyebrow back at him, almost daring. Roderick leaned forward, and his escort loomed over him.

“Tell me,” the Bard said softly. “Will the farmers resist?”

His escort said only, “Not for long.”

Not for long.

With a tremor of fear, the Bard realised that his crisis and Rhan’s had already been lost completely – that no one in this room cared for Ecko, for fires or Elementalism, for alchemical monsters or dying boys, for stone creatures that fell from the wall... They cared only for the terhwnood.

And Phylos had turned this into some form of power play.

Not for long.

If this was how these people thought, this their game – if they cared only for the wealth beneath their noses – how was he to gain their understanding? Rhan’s warning mocked him, They’ll laugh you out of the hall...

Roderick was belatedly realising that he was utterly out of his depth.

But he had to make them see!

Panic began to close round his throat.

“I really don’t think –” Demisarr stood to speak “– we can force the farmlands to suffer the armoured fist of cruelty from our Lordship. Feeding our people is our priority. Rhan, tell me of these fires.”

Phylos coughed as though he covered scorn. There was an open ripple of amusement, apparently at the Lord’s naïveté.

Roderick held his horror silent.

But Rhan was on his feet. “My Lord, they are not the result of carelessness, though perhaps a military watch would be a welcome thing.” He threw his words across the table like rocks, the stress on the word “watch” was palpable. “We can ration stores and redistribute the crop if necessary. But for now, I would rather understand the cause of these fires and then remove it. Mostak, you’ll assign a force to each and every manor, ensure that each manor’s farms will be patrolled. We need to know what’s doing this.”

The Bard’s tapping was growing frenzied. With one move, Rhan had effectively narrowed the field of the game to two factions – Phylos and himself. And he would defend the son of the Founder with the last drop of light in his blood.

Uphold his Gods-given oath.

Now, the Bard leaned on the back of the seat in front of him, trying to understand the subtle shiftings of power that were playing out below. Phylos and Rhan fought for control – but it was Mostak, the soldier, who held the strength that would enable one of them to win or lose.

Or was it?

With a grim smile, Phylos flicked an infinitesimal gesture.

And another member of the Nine spoke.

“With respect, I think not – my Lord.”