Ecko Endgame Read Online Free

it, by the rhez, knew it intimately. She wanted to shake herself, to wake up, to cry denial, to realise that this was one of Aeona’s damned figments, something from the Gleam Wood, some nightmare they’d found or brought with them…
    It had to be. Didn’t it.
    Didn’t it?
    But when she blinked, the aged thing was still there.
    Triq swallowed again, acid and horror. Her heart was already pounding from the storm, from the hovels outside – now it shuddered like the unsettled sky. Her throat afire, she said stupidly, “No… This is some jest, some coincidence. It can’t…”
    “I wish to every God it was.” Amethea’s voice caught and she staggered, caught herself on Triqueta’s shoulder. She didn’t let go, and Triq put a hand over her friend’s, both of them transfixed by the rotten thing that lay on the pallet.
    Then Amethea rallied, stood up straight.
    “Triq,” she said, “I really need your help. I know this is hard for you, but I need to understand what’s happened to her, what’s…” Amethea gestured helplessly, seeking words. “It’s like what happened to you. With Tarvi. Like her time was… just… sucked away.”
    “No.” Triqueta was shaking. “No.” When Amethea didn’t respond, Triq glanced sideways at her friend. “It can’t be, it
can’t
be. I killed that damned daemon bitch Tarvi myself. And Vahl Zaxaar—”
    “Was defeated,” Amethea said. “He went raging to Fhaveon and Rhan threw him down, Nivrotar told us.” Her eyes met her friend’s. “But, Triq, think. If that’s true, then who did this?
What
did this?” Her eyes shone with the horror of it. She blinked moisture, took a long and shaking breath. “And to Karine?”
    Karine.
    Capable, outspoken, no-nonsense Karine. The heart of The Wanderer, the Bard’s ward and word and organisation…
    Triqueta stared at the shrivelled thing.
    Karine.
    If the Bard himself had been The Wanderer’s motivation, the tavern’s soul and purpose, then Karine had been its fire, its sheer efficiency. Her vibrancy had been palpable; she’d been a constant whirl of energy, equally good-humoured, annoying and relentless. To see her like this, her returns literally sucked from her skin…
    Triqueta’s throat burned; figments of other memories taunted her.
    Tarvi’s kiss. Glorious. A moment of absolute passion, incredible. And a cost beyond words, beyond comprehension.
    But Tarvi was gone: she’d killed that damned bitch-thing herself. What else was there that could do this, could drain the very Count of Time from the flesh of a friend? Vahl Zaxaar? The – what were they called? – the “vialer”? More of Aeona’s flesh-crafted creations?
    For the tiniest moment, Triqueta wondered if they should suspect the Bard himself – the change in him was chilling. Since the loss of The Wanderer and his return from Ecko’s world, he was a lean, savage shadow and nothing like the man he had been.
    The whole damn world’s gone loco. Really this time…
    She swallowed again, trying to rid herself of memory, of clamouring fear, of the awful, awful burning in her throat.
    Karine.
    The tent side strained against the harsh wind. Water dripped from the bottom edge and seeped under their feet.
    “Triqueta.” Amethea gripped her shoulders, looked into her face. The girl’s blue eyes were as dark as the storm-ridden sky, and then it was all there in the air between them. Not only Karine and the Bard and the lost Wanderer, but Tarvi’s kiss, Maugrim’s flame, the figments at Aeona, Redlock’s monstrous transformation – everything they’d seen and shared, everything they’d lived through and fought for and been helpless to prevent. The summer had left them, the autumn had faded; the winter had come and the grass had died. The vast and empty plainland stood barren, scoured to the bone.
    Everything that’d brought them this far had gone, or changed beyond the telling of it.
    Distantly, the thunder grumbled again – some creature defeated,