Ecko Rising

catch-net is very wide.”

“So? What’s one dead critter?”

“So, we were talking about myth, and rumour. I hear things from all over the world, and I piece them together. This isn’t just one creature.”

Kale said, “It didn’t smell right. Even when he brought it in. It smelled –” he searched for a word and came up with “– wrong.”

Ecko snorted. “That’s some nose you got there.”

“I don’t understand.” The Bard stood up, fingers now rattling against his thigh. He was restless, pacing. “This is the first time our rumours have been realised. And nartuk... that lore is lost. We’ve not practised such alchemy since the high days of Tusien. This – all of this – both defeats and intruiges me.”

There was a flare in the Bard’s amethyst eyes, a flame of something less than sanity – or something more. Hell, this place was getting more like a home-from-home asylum with each day, for chrissakes. Ecko watched, barely suppressing a grin.

Maybe I’m not the only one who needs a shrink...

Roderick took a breath. “Our world is afraid. In her thoughts, she fears something she can neither name nor remember. I’ve spent my whole life, everything I have, seeking to understand that fear. It’s why I have The Wanderer.” He picked up the small terhnwood blade that he’d shown Ecko earlier and gestured with it as he spoke. “I’m Roderick of Avesyr, Guardian of the Ryll, once hailed as the hope of my people. All my life, I’ve searched for lore and insight, and still, I don’t understand.”

“So? Enough with the OCD shit. The guy’s outside, let’s interrogate the crap outta him. He tells us where he got it – we’re good. Let’s go.”

Roderick said, “The Ryll is a waterfall, far to the north of here, where the thoughts of the world are manifest – and where her nightmare was shown to me. And you’re not going anywhere until I understand how this fits.”

“How ’bout we just get off our asses –”

“I’m not jesting,” Roderick said. He pointed with the blade, his expression cold. “The world knows fear. And this, this is a tiny fragment of that larger picture. There have been sightings and rumours all through the central Varchinde. It’s not just one nartuk, it’s more than that. It’s the beginning of something huge.”

“Says who? It’s one fucking critter!”

“Did you not listen? I am – was – a Guardian of the Ryll. I watched the thoughts of the world in the water. And I saw –”

“Yeah, a nightmare, I got it already.” Ecko grinned. “How many mushrooms were you doing?”

The Bard went white. He said, slowly and very carefully, “It’s not just one creature, Ecko. It’s the beginning. The world has a fear that she had forgotten – and we must assemble the pieces.”

“Chrissakes.” Ecko came up to a half crouch, facing the Bard across the table. His targeters crossed Roderick’s forehead, the weapon in his hand. “It looks pretty fucking simple to me: wherever that thing came from, that’s where we go. We follow the trail, we do the Grand Quest, I get my hands on the God of Evil, he’s shish kebab, I go home.” He grinned. “This should be as easy as... hey, let’s say ‘a booze up in a brewery’.”

“By the Gods, Ecko! Where do you think I got my scar? You talk so glibly of a ‘God of Evil’ – legend tells that there indeed was once a creature who may fit that description. I went looking for him – and I found nothing.” The Bard’s passion was powerful, but Ecko didn’t care. “There is so much more we must know. The soil of the Varchinde does show remnants of some ancient war – but I know not how the pieces fit together!”

“This is bullshit!” Ecko snarled back at him. “You can’t just sit on your fanny in here doing shit-all, waiting for... what? The sky to fall on your head? Your God of Evil to drop in for a chat and a pint of the good stuff? Go question the guy with the nartuk. You should be doin’ your investigation or whatever, not –”

“Investigation?” Roderick’s snarl marched Ecko’s own. “Ecko, I’ve been searching almost a hundred returns – I have dug every ruin, I have found every treasure, I have learned every tale, I have faced every foe. Wherever these alchemical creatures are coming from...”

“Gimme a map, already, I’ll tell you where they’re comin’ from. Where’s your realm of death and decay? Your pits of fire and mountains of ash? That’s where the source is, that’s where the Bad Guy always hangs out – hell, his shadow’s rising even now.” He sneered. “Let’s get our butts down there and wake him the fuck up. We can take him an espresso.”

“A what?”

The tension in the room crested, paused, and shattered. Either side of the table, Ecko and the Bard were intent on each other – Ecko’s small, tight frame coiled in a crouch facing Roderick’s height and presence. Kale had quietly slipped away.

Then, as if Ecko had snapped his back like the fibres of the resin sword, the Bard dropped into his chair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softly. “Sera is asking about the nartuk, and we’ll learn what we can. But unless we see something more, I fear Vanksraat can’t shed the light we seek.”

“Save it.” Ecko’s snarl was subdued. “Feeling sorry for yourself won’t get you shit. Unless Eliza’s stuck me in some Kobayashi Maru, there’s a solution. Let’s go get it.” He blinked. “Unless you’re any good with pentagrams and goats?”

“When we come to the capital city, to Fhaveon, we can speak to Rhan. He is...” He stopped himself, then said, “...I shall be interested to see what Rhan makes of you, Ecko. Or perchance, if The Wanderer allows, I can take you to my home city, Avesyr, and the Ryll’s ever-falling water.” He stared at the broken sword for a moment, perhaps not even seeing it. “They will not welcome me.” Then a ghost of his former chuckle danced from the walls. “In the meantime, we can pray that our nartuk will give us some answers.”

8: TRIQUETA

                    THE RIBBON-TOWNS OF ROVIARATH AND THE CENTRAL VARCHINDE

The Wanderer thumped with noise.

The taproom was heaving with bodies and shouting and drunken laughter. The air was hot and close, it reeked of sweat and animal.

Crouched like a bilious gargoyle on the end of the bar, Ecko reckoned he was going certifiably fucking loopy. The noise and the stink were overpowering, nausea had closed his throat and his nerve endings were sparking with exasperation. All he wanted to do was get on with this, track down the Uberboss and kick the shit out of it.

Wasn’t that how this stuff worked?

The nartuk’s owner had told them a simple tale – that the thing had befriended them en route to the fiveday market at the local tithehall. The poor, clueless bastard seemed more upset by its death than by the fact that it was apparently a thousand years old.

Hell, wasn’t like they could even dissect the damn thing. Ecko would’ve given a hefty weight of that terhnwood stuff for some decent forensics.

Communications.

A fucking library.

That morning, they’d jumped from the Vanksraat riverside to the ramshackle unrolling of a Grassland “ribbon-town”: one of the twin, thin stretches of deadwood that bled out along the trade-roads from the major cities. The place was a dump, abundant in two things: dirt and poverty. The roadway looked like some jingle-booted sheriff should have a high noon shootout and leave the bodies to rot like the nartuk had done.

But noon had come and gone and no sheriff had manifest to demand his sippin’ whiskey. Now, the evening was warm, the sun low and red and fat. It rested on the rickety roofs and sent long, bloody shadows through the dust.

And Ecko was crouched on the bar top like a silent and stone thing, realising something that annoyed