Ecko Endgame by Ware Danie

Author:Ware, Danie [Ware, Danie]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Publisher: Titan Books
Published: 2015-11-10T00:00:00+00:00

17: FIRST ATTACK

TUSIEN

Tusien.

Once a speck on the wall in the cellars of The Wanderer, now rising out of the ground-level fog, huge and jagged against a paling winter sky. Its lone tower caught the first light of the rising sun, and blazed as if already aflame. Halfway between the now-abandoned Fhaveon and the ruined remnant of Scar Lake, Tusien’s black and broken walls still held massive strength – they seemed unassailable, defended by the long slope of the hillside, and by an outer curtain-wall that crumbled forth about halfway down. Once, the ground would have been all grass and wildflowers – now it was lifeless, shrouded in winter mist.

Nivrotar had designated the great ruin as their target, their last stand, and they’d crossed half the Northern Varchinde to reach it. And, if her scheme had gone to plan, the forces of Amos should already be there; set up and waiting for Rhan to draw Vahl into the battle he could not win.

In theory.

But the Bard could see no sign of the camped Amos force.

He turned in his saddle and looked backwards, out across the plain.

And so: the final battle begins.

Out there, dawn mist seethed over dead ground. There were dark shapes in the fog and the cold: Vahl’s army, straining to get at them, writhe and eddy and slaver.

A thrill of anticipation went though him.

It’s all so close now! Everything I’ve been waiting for!

Around him, the warriors were weary and shivering, shadow-eyed and haunted. The voices of the Kas had called to them, touched them. The tan and flag commanders were numbering their soldiers, counting to see if any had been lost in the night’s run. They barked orders, puffs of steam and instruction. Drums sounded, the sharp sounds muffled by the fog. Runners took tallies to Mostak’s flag.

High above them, the sun slid slowly down the line of Tusien’s tower. The air began to warm, and the mist to clear.

And out across the plain, Vahl’s army began to move.

Roderick could hear them – shouts that grew in threat and volume, cries like echoes of bloodlust, now rising with alarming swiftness. He turned to the commander, but Mostak already knew – he was turning in his own saddle, barking orders. The drums changed tempo, stern retorts that brooked no delay. The warriors got up with a groan that felt like the hillside coming apart.

They formed up, flags and pennons fluttering like a last flare of hope.

From below them, there came a roar. A promise of death. A surge of eagerness and horror.

Fearless, Roderick answered it.

Boom. Ba-ba-boom. Ba-ba-boom.

There was power in the vibration, in the very sound. He could feel the heavy bass drumbeat in his chest, his throat; he could match and echo and rebroadcast it. He could call it forth, make it shake the air, the ground, the bleak ruins of the standing walls – he could make it shiver in a thousand bloodstreams.

The sound was pure courage. The heads of the exhausted militia came up, their chins raised and their eyes burning.

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