Free Ecko Endgame by Danie Ware Page B

Lord. He’s at the outskirts of the city. And he’s asking for you.”

5: SAVE POINT
TRADE-ROAD, FHAVEON
    There was a stray, furry thing, all big eyes and radar ears, huddled alone in the winter cold. There was a black blade, carbon fibre and mono-edged, a silent and accurate throw that downed the puffed-up critter without a squeak.
    Ecko shivered. He eyed the Bard’s knife as it peeled the furry thing and spilled its guts – his own stomach turned over. Chrissakes, this shit he still hadn’t gotten used to – food came in sealed packages, processed, labelled, barcoded, unrecognisable. It had safety information, corporate caveats, logos. This thing? This thing still had eyeballs.
    Nope – he really wasn’t fucking hungry.
    Unfazed by the skinless thing, Amethea offered suggestions on herbs and flavours. Christ on a shovel, outbound fucking cookery class was just taking the piss, okay?
    Eliza? You even listening anymore?
    The Bard cleaned the blade. He banked down the fire, then carved strips of muscle off the dead thing and laid them out on long stones. Slowly the raw meat blackened, fibres breaking and peeling back. Rich smells writhed in the evening air.
    Ecko huddled closer to the fire.
    Over him, the sky drew in low. The wind was cold down his back. He had a sore ass and stiff legs, his shoulders were damp, and there was a crick in his neck where his fool fucking horse had started at some burrowing critter. Watching strips of beastie slowly char, he found himself in a foul mood that was getting uglier by the minute. He wanted nothing more than to ditch this Adventuring Party shit, an’…
    An’
what
?
    Strike out alone? Save the world? Win the war? Cure the blight? Pull a white rabbit out his butthole?
    Ta-dah!
    He couldn’t be a hero; he’d lost his fucking cape.
    Yeah. I’m funny.
    But it wasn’t just his stealth-cloak he’d lost, his footwear and his flamethrower and Lugan’s fucking lighter – in agreeing to play nice, eat his greens and go to bed on time, he’d lost a fundamental necessity.
    His freedom.
    He was Ecko, fucksake, he was the ‘me’ in team. He was gonna do whatever the hell he wanted and no bastard was gonna stop him…
    Not even his friends.
    Chrissakes.
    He held a hand to the fire as if he could hold out the thought and let it go, watch it rise like burning paper, and spark into nothing in the gathering dusk. Friends were a responsibility, something that had to be worried about and taken care of…
    Freedom
, for chrissakes.
    But what could he do? Ditch these fuckers, do a runner? He might make a day, two. But in this barren, almost-lifeless nothing, this wind, this cold… he’d get lost. Or starve. Or break his neck. Or catch fucking dysentery or something. Cities, he could do, but this crap?
    The embers popped, laughing at him.
    Somewhere under them there was a flicker of blue, of real heat, compelling. Heat like Maugrim’s Sical, heat like his own breath.
    His freedom had gone, his independence was over. He’d surrendered them both when the others had pulled him off of Amal.
    Family
, Triq had said.
    The fire leaped and crackled.
    Yeah, an’ y’know what?
His thoughts flared in symmetry.
If I’m gonna do this, I’m gonna fuckin’ own it. I’m gonna win every trophy and every fuckin’ side quest. You peel back my layers all you want, bitch, but when these Kiss Vahl Thingies rise in flames or whatever, I’m gonna kick their fuckin’ asses.
    You just watch me!
    After Amos, their first few days had been bright, sunshine-cold. The trade-roads had been violent and lawless, dirty. Yet the Bard had ridden through them and the people had fallen silent – he was a maverick, a knife-slinging outlaw, dressed in black and reeking of liquor and reputation. Ecko’d half expected Wanted posters to appear on walls, and for the reward to be higher every time he passed one.
    Yeah, you don’t mess with Wild Bill Bigcock.
    But no one had voiced a challenge. Roderick had shown no sign