“Gimme the short version. What I can eat, what’s gonna eat me, and where the Bad Guy’s at.”
“It’s a little more complex than that.”
“What – the God of Evil doesn’t have a bar tab?”
“He’s notoriously bad at trading for his ales... Look.” The Bard picked up his mug as if checking exasperation. “You understand the importance of reconnaissance, intelligence. Knowledge is something I’ve spent my life seeking, and the little I have is –” he gave a wry chuckle “– not nearly enough. I have only rumour, stealthing in the grass like a hunting bweao, and its source eludes me.”
Ecko bit back an immediate response and picked up his mug.
“Rumour of what?” The stuff inside was herbal, it smelled like old socks and green tea. He took a mouthful and scalded his tongue.
Outside, there were voices coming closer, and Roderick, with a glance over his shoulder at the door, began to speak more quickly.
“There is much lore you should know, Ecko, lore that I alone have use for – but I fear this morning, the Count of Time is against us. For now, I will say only this: that we of the Grasslands are no longer warriors. Our last war is forgotten, the memory discarded. Our Elementalists, the priests of the people, once teachers and guides, have long since faded into tavern-tales and trickery. The Powerflux, the surge of element to element across the world, is gone and lost.” He reached up, took a resin blade from the wall and laid it across the table. In the morning sun, it shone like gold; it was exquisitely decorated and there was a mark, a symbol of some sort, carved into it at the crossguard. It was significant, but for the moment, Ecko did not know why.
The Bard glanced again at the door. “With this long freedom from both strife and learning, we have become a culture dependent upon the cycles of our trade. Upon
“What – terhnwood makes your world go round?” Ecko wasn’t laughing. Something about the Bard’s plea was chillingly familiar.
There were feet getting closer on the path outside.
“We are complacent in our comforts,” Roderick said, “and ruled by our merchants. Our satisfaction is surpassed only by blindness. Yet now, rumours rise like figments, hauntings of imagination. And without our lore...”
There was a shadow in the doorway, the sound of feet on stone and an awkward throat-clearing. “Um. Hello?”
“Without our lore,” the Bard finished, “I fear they will surpass us and we will be lost.”
At the door loitered a small gaggle of locals who’d paused, peering into the building as if it would haze out of existence like a mirage. As the Bard turned, they shoved one of their number forwards – a young man, a heavy bag in one hand and a hat wrung to a rag in the other. From his garments, Ecko’s mind instantly labelled him “farmer”.
Sera stood like a wall, unspeaking.
Karine called from behind the bar top, “Morning! Are you trader or worker? If you’re here to get legless, you’ll have to wait until highsun when we’re fully stocked.”
“Please,” the young man said, looking from face to face. “I’m neither. I came to ask a question.”
“Of course.” The Bard came to his feet. “What can we do for you?”
When a fellow behind him gave him a nudge, the young man swung the heavy, drawstring bag onto the nearest table. It hit with a thump. Ecko’s oculars kicked and tracked, but the contents were heavy, motionless and cold.
Dead, or he was a monkey’s asshole.
The boy opened the string. With some effort, he pulled free a creature.
Ecko spun his telescopics.
The beastie was unfamiliar, but dead as fuck. It was doglike, long legged and skinny, though deep chested with powerful back legs and a balancing tail. It could probably stand on its hind paws if it had to, or spring extremely high – certainly high enough to see over tall grass.
Intrigued now, Ecko shifted so he could see it properly.
The thing just lay there.
Karine bawled, “Oi! Get that off my table!”
But Kale was in the kitchen doorway, his face bothered and frowning.
Ecko tensed, but the cook’s temperature was normal. He seemed puzzled, intense.
Roderick ran a hand over the thing’s flank. He said, “Where did this come from?”
The young man bobbed his head, twisted his hat. His friends had crowded in though the door and they jostled each other to see.
“Please, we found it. It was alive – quite friendly really.” He looked upset. “We tried to feed it and it just died. My family’re farmers, we’re tithed to Vanksraat and our manor’s good to us, we’re only here for the fiveday trade- market. No one knew what it... we tried... and it just toppled over.”
“All right, all right, easy.” Roderick shot a glance at Karine and she reached for a pottery goblet. “Have a seat and let me... dear Gods.”
The smell was enough; it brought Kale right out of the doorway and drove Sera into the sun. The Bard, though, didn’t move a muscle. He stared as though his boots had been nailgunned to the floor.
Ecko craned.
The thing was
Right there on the table – as the light touched it, it was superheating and dissolving into mulch. Its skin peeled back to muscle and sinew, black creatures invaded its flesh and ate it from the inside out. Organs swelled and burst and stank and dissolved, bones cracked and twisted. There was the faint smell of burning wood, a thin wisp of smoke.
The scream was Silfe, the outrage Karine, but Ecko was transfixed, his oculars working, working. The heat was localised – some kinda spontaneous beastie combustion. Okay so it wasn’t a skeletal lich dog, but hey, it was still pretty fucking cool.
The young man shook. His friends patted him as he turned away.
But Roderick watched as the thing dissolved to ash and memory, as the invading creatures starved, perished in their turn, and were gone. There was a char mark on the table.
The Bard said, his voice like stone, “Get me a brush.”
His expression was bleak.
As the young man was hustled outside and given a mug of green stuff, Ecko rather thought that shit had just gotten serious.
* * *
Ecko said, “So? What the hell was that?”
The front doors of the tavern were closed. Sera was outside, talking to the boy; Karine and Silfe had vanished with stocklists. With Roderick now was Kale, his worn face troubled.
“It was a nartuk,” Roderick said. “An alchemical cross – they’ve been extinct for hundred of returns. It’s also not the first... oddity... that’s been seen.” His fingers were tapping tattoos on the table. He glanced up at Ecko. “We’re unique here, we amass rumour from all places, much as we amass trade-goods. We’re a node, and our
