And where I get some?
Pareus flickered a frown. “I don’t understand.”
“Place exploded. Boom. Like the powder store went up or some wack-job chemist screwed up with the Greek fire. You gettin’ me?” He grinned. “Ker-blooey.”
“Anything left alive?”
“Only us.” His oculars picked up shattered roof slates hanging from eyeless, half-collapsed houses, floors sliding into ruin. Charred bodies, adults and children, flash-burned as they sat in their homes. In many places, their stuff was still visible – broken ceramics, torn flutters of fabric, melted and glistening terhnwood-resin.
Ecko caught himself thinking: Poor fuckers.
They didn’t even have a chance.
His focus spun back and forth as he scanned the ground. Charred animal remains, shattered fragments of lives. Here and there, tiny pockets of flame still sought fuel and oxygen, twists of smoke climbed from still-smouldering wood. Nothing else moved.
“Flash-fry job. Nothing livin’ down there.”
He spun his focus back to the grass in his face.
“We’ll picket the chearl inside the rise,” Pareus said, and his fingers flashed orders at his patrol. He checked his blade and bow. The kid was pale, but not afraid to make the decisions – vacation time was done. “Ecko, you’ll take point. If there’s anything left alive in there I want it found. Questioned.” He took a long breath, then let it out. “We’ll follow you. Tarvi!”
Ecko bared his black teeth in a grin, lifted his cowl further over his face. The kid’s got ’em when he needs ’em, he thought, maybe this won’t be a rerun of Aliens after all.
“See?” Ecko rasped a chuckle. “It ain’t so hard. Get your goons in line, kiddo, let’s party.”
* * *
The vastness of the open Varchinde.
Ecko had only ever seen this stuff in movies – it was an agoraphobic’s worst nightmare, emptiness more than anyone could fucking stand. It was more sky and wind and grass than he could get his head round, and, frankly, it was freaking him out.
It made him feel so fucking small.
He knew he was holding them back, there was way too much to deal with.
His first problem was called a “chearl” – it had a bad attitude and a sloping back and a Mohawk mane and a tail like a bog brush. Sitting on it nearly sawed him in half, but he was determined not to quit.
How hard could riding the damn thing really be, for chrissakes? It wasn’t like it had an engine.
His second problem was the dust. The road was busy – heaving, compared to the population of the city – and dust from feet and hooves and wheels devil-danced like chaff across the roadways. Oddly, though it coated his lips and teeth, it lessened his feeling of exposure. It was soft, it diffused the sun and sheltered him from the godalmighty space that lurked, endless and featureless, behind the roadside buildings. As he rode the blade-line that cut the prairie in half, it billowed in his wake.
His third problem? His butt hurt.
But he kept his trap shut and rode on.
To one side of them, the bizarre ribbon of township rose and fell, in and out of the plainland – a thin, poor stretch of deadwood offering inns, pubs and whorehouses, general stores and rickety stalls. They further they rode, the poorer it became – sun bleached and tumbledown. He could hear voices, calling to the mass of travellers, asking them to stop and trade.
Ecko watched, kinda hoping for goblins. Some of these places so looked like there’d be an ambush – please? He flicked his oculars, mode to mode, twitched his fingers restlessly...
...but the goblins had packed their little green goblin bags, only the hobos and the winos remained.
Eventually, the township thinned, spotted and finally dissolved altogether, melted by the heat and trickling into the cracked and dusty roadside.
The neck of Ecko’s beast was decorated with intricate whorls of stink, he didn’t need his heatseeker to see the shimmer that came off its hide. As the pain in his spine and thighs increased, he became steadily more unfocused. He didn’t sweat and his poreless skin struggled with the ceaseless beating of the sun, the open air, the endless wind, the changes in food and sleep. He’d’ve sold his fucking soul for a can of chilled fizz. Slowly, the pain, the heat, the motion of the chearl, the rippling grass, drifted one into another, and all into a blur.
* * *
At the edge of the ruin, Ecko crouched still. His skin was ash and charcoal, his cloak loosed like a live thing, folds flickered like shadows in the evening breeze.
Behind him, Pareus and the ten members of his patrol. Most bore bows and short spears, a couple had small, round shields buckled to their forearms. They were fast on their feet, lightly armed skirmishers – and they were suddenly taking this the fuck seriously.
Playtime’s over.
They watched the township, and Pareus for orders. Ecko remained still for a long moment, oculars scanning every burned-out building, every crumbling wall, every broken cart and corpse – then he raced forwards, sharp and swift, barely stirring the ash as he went.
One dead corporate, two dead corporate...
He counted twenty-two before they came after him. Small units, archers and shieldmen together, the spears working in threes. They were noisy on their feet, but they were well trained and sheer, cold terror was making them focus. Not one of them spoke.
As Pareus directed them, they scuttled nervously outwards into charred remnants of buildings, ruined streets. They took cover where they could and occasionally shuddered as they passed something familiar, death curled on blasted soil.
Those kids were getting one helluva wake-up call.
Ahead of them, barely a wisp of darkness, Ecko was unarmed – he didn’t need that shit anyhow. His targeters cross-hatched empty windows, likely cover, possible threat – he moved from stealth-crouch to stealth-crouch with accomplished ease.
He may be cussing the absence of wrecked cars, but this shit? He knew backwards.
He paused at the base of a cracked and roofless wall, kicked a charred skull from under his feet, shreds of skin still clinging to the jawline. He listened to the hiss of superheated air, the creaking of damaged timbers.
As the colours in his skin shifted with the sky, the stone, he watched.
Pareus was good, tightly focused like he was too terrified to fuck up. He was blade in hand, low and alert, watching the units of his patrol and the ground ahead of him. His second, Tarvi, was wide-eyed at the devastation. There was a smudge of tears and dirt down the side of her face, but her focus echoed his – she held her terror in rigid check.
The Bard’s preaching Ragnarök – and this is our fucking army? He addressed the silent sky, bright and blue as though it didn’t give a shit. Jeez, Eliza, we’re screwed.
Eliza made no response.
As Tarvi came past him, spearman to each side of her, Ecko slipped out to follow.
* * *
Water. Dripping, annoying, cold.
His hand lashed out. There was a feminine squeak and a bark of laughter.
Spitting, he sat up.
He was crumpled at the base of a grassy bank – the air was cooling, there was fire-warmth to one side. Crouched by him was one of the grunts, a small, dark-haired woman with a sunburned nose. His first thought: she’s cute. His second: what the hell was he doing down here?
For no apparent reason, his head was full of fire. Chrissakes, had he been dreaming, already?