Inferno

22

The nearer the Wolverines were carried up to the structure on the hilltop the larger they realised it was.

It had the look of having been refashioned and expanded over generations, each leaving their own mark by adding whatever architectural mode happened to be favoured at the time. The result was a curious hybrid of styles. Much of it was white stone. But there were sections coloured red or black, and extensions made of timber. It had a central needle-shaped spire, and onion domes embellished with gold decorations. There were a number of towers of various heights and different contours. An assortment of windows studded the many walls, some with tinted glass, jostling for space with balconies. Flying buttresses helped hold the whole affair together.

As the crowd climbed, so did their excitement. The chanting reached a new pitch, the drums beat louder, the horns grew more shrill.

When the band finally reached the massive plateau that stretched out in front of the building they found a scrum of beings.

“What do we do now that we’re up here, Stryke?” Coilla asked.

“Go in, I guess.” He looked over his shoulder at the mass pressing in from behind. “We’ve no choice.”

“Yeah, but take a look at the entrance. They’re only letting in small numbers at a time.”

She was right. At the great curved doorway stood a group of brown-robed figures. Their cowls were up and their features obscured, so it was impossible to see what kind of beings they were, beyond basically humanoid. They were strictly marshalling the flow. One of them, in distinctive blue robes, seemed to be a superior of some kind, issuing orders. From time to time he disappeared inside, presumably to gauge the situation.

“Not much chance of us all staying together while they’re doing that,” Jup said.

“Why don’t we rush ’em and blag our way in?” Haskeer suggested with typical forthrightness.

“I think we need something a bit more subtle,” Stryke decided.

“I can help,” Dynahla said.

“How?”

He explained.

Stryke nodded. “It’s worth a try.”

“We need to get closer then.”

The Wolverines barged their way to near the front of the queue. That strained the otherwise good-natured spirit of the crowd somewhat, but nobody made too much of a fuss. Once in place, close to the entrance, they waited until the supervisor entered the building.

“Now, quickly!” Dynahla said.

The band gathered round and hid him from view. Seconds later they parted, revealing a duplicate of the blue-robed official. Then they elbowed their way to the door with him.

Their worry was that, not knowing the language the custodians of the entrance were using, the ruse would be exposed. In that event Stryke was considering doing what Haskeer suggested and forcing their way in, and damn the consequences. He’d gamble on the crowd being pacifistic enough not to put up too much opposition.

When the band got to the entrance, several of the brown-robed beings looked askance at their elder appearing from the crowd when he had apparently just entered the building behind them. Dynahla countered that, and the communication problem, by employing some robust sign language whose meaning was universal. After a bout of arm-waving, pointing and fist-making the cowed doorkeepers stepped aside to let the Wolverines in.

Once inside, the band surrounded the shape-shifter again and he emerged in his normal guise.

“That’s a really handy skill,” Jup said admiringly.

“Thanks,” Dynahla replied, stretching after the transformation. “It seemed almost too easy.”

“And it could have been,” Stryke warned. “So stay alert.”

They took in their surroundings. There were plenty of beings present, but given that entry was strictly controlled it wasn’t jampacked.

The interior was opulent. Everything was white, pink and black marble, highly polished. The walls were lavishly decorated with frescos, tapestries and velvet hangings. Way above, the ceiling was likewise ornate, and tall columns soared on every side. Light streamed in through elaborate stained-glass windows.

They saw that there was a similarly large door at the far end of the great hall they were standing in, with lines of pilgrims filing out.

“That explains something,” Coilla said. “I was wondering why we didn’t see anybody coming down the mountain. That must exit to a road on the other side.”

“Looks like we’re supposed to go this way,” Jup told them.

Silken ropes threaded between stanchions channelled the faithful into a corridor that proved as splendid as the hall they had just left. It was lined with friezes depicting what they assumed were fables of some kind. In truth they didn’t take much notice. Their attention was on the chamber the corridor led to, at the heart of the building.

Again, it was marble, although compared to the entrance hall it was austere. Yet somehow that made it more impressive. There were no windows; the light came from a profusion of candles, and from several massive chandeliers. Nor was there any furniture or ornamentation of any kind. The air was heavy with incense, issuing from a pair of heavy brass burners suspended by silver chains.

In the centre of the room was a large sarcophagus, also of marble, set on a podium. A dozen or so beings of diverse race were clustered about it, some on their knees. The tomb itself was topped by a lifesized statue. They approached it.

“A human?” Haskeer exclaimed, causing heads to turn. “All this in aid of a bloody human?”

So it seemed. The statue was the likeness of a human in his prime, a male of perhaps thirty summers. He was tall, and lean rather than muscular. Dressed simply in trews, high buckled boots and a shirt slashed open to the waist, he cut a dashing figure. He wore a form of headgear, something between a helm and a cap, and he held a sword in his raised right hand.

“There’s an inscription,” Coilla said, bending to it.

They crowded round.

“ ‘The Liberator,’ ” she read out. “And there’s a name… ‘Tomhunter.’ ”

“Tomhunter-tomhunter-tomhunter,” Spurral recited. “ That’s what the crowd was chanting.”

“They’ve got some really stupid names, those humans,” Prooq sniggered.

Hystykk grinned. “You said it.”

Gleadeg, Nep and Chuss agreed. They elbowed each other’s ribs and snorted in derision.

Pepperdyne and Standeven had a slightly different view. The former was mildly amused, the latter looked indignant.

“What the fuck did this Tomhunter do to deserve all this?” Haskeer thundered.

“Let’s find out,” Stryke said. He spotted a young elf standing alone nearby, gazing respectfully at the statue, and collared him. “So what’s the story behind this Tomhunter then?”

The elf looked bewildered, and not a little shocked. “What?”

“This place.” Stryke indicated their surroundings with a sweep of his arm. “What’s it about?”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“No. We’re… er… new converts.”

“You don’t know about the Selarompian wars or the revolution in Gimff?”

“No.”

“The Rectarus Settlement or the battle of the Last Pass?”

“Not really.”

“Or the-”

“Just imagine we don’t know anything, all right?”

“So why are you here?”

“To learn.” He jabbed a thumb at the statue. “Tell us about this Tomhunter.”

“The Liberator? The all-conquering redeemer? The most revered being in the history of civilisation?”

“Yeah, him.”

“If you truly don’t know the fabled story of Tomhunter, blessed be his name, then I envy you. To hear the tale of his exploits for the first time is an experience that will transform your lives and stay with you for ever.”

“So tell us,” Stryke said through gritted teeth.

“There was a solitary incident that, once you know it, will illuminate the character of this martyr, this saint, this paragon of all that is noble and benevolent.”

“Which was…?”

“The single most magnificent, heroic, selfless act he performed, the one feat that enshrined his memory in the hearts of everybody for all time was-”

An arrow zipped between them, narrowly missing both their heads. It struck the tomb, bounced off and clattered on the marble floor.

“Attack!” Haskeer bellowed.

A bunch of Jennesta’s thugs had entered the chamber, five or six of them, and two were aiming their bows.

“Take cover!” Stryke yelled, shoving the terrified elf to the ground.

The band scampered to the other side of the tomb, using it as a shield. Several more arrows clanged against it. The band began returning fire.

There was panic among the pilgrims. Those who weren’t hugging the floor were running for the exit. Shouts and screams rang out, appeals to the Liberator filled the air. The mayhem could be heard spreading with the fleeing believers, to the corridor outside and into the grand entrance hall.

When Jennesta’s group had spent their arrows, Stryke led a charge against them. The enemy turned and fled, the Wolverines on their heels. They dashed along the passageway and into the entrance hall, then headed across it, bowling over any adherents too slow to get out of the way.

Coilla pointed. “They’re making for the exit!”

“Move it!” Stryke urged the band.

They put on a spurt, Standeven plodding along at the rear, panting heavily. Their quarry, knocking aside all in their path, got to the back door and scooted out. At the forefront of the band, Stryke, Coilla and Pepperdyne were the next through. A brace of arrows came near to parting their hair and they ducked back in.

“Did you see her out there?” Pepperdyne asked. “Jennesta?”

Stryke nodded. “I thought I saw Thirzarr, too. Ready to try again?”

They were.

Moving fast and low, they tumbled out, weapons drawn. There was a paved area there, similar to the one at the front of the mausoleum, and scores of pilgrims were stretched out on it, hands and paws covering their heads, prostrate with dread. To the right, near the downward path and no more than a dagger’s lob away, stood Jennesta and her clique, Stryke’s mate amongst them.

But even as the band dashed to them, they were gone.

“Shit!” Stryke raged.

As Dynahla made ready to transport the Wolverines yet again, Coilla muttered, “It was never like this in Ceragan.”

Things had never been quite like this in Ceragan.

As mere hatchlings, Janch and Corb hadn’t been told what was going on. But they knew something wasn’t right.

They couldn’t help but be aware that certain of the adults were no longer to be seen in the settlement, but nobody would tell them where they had gone. Corb, the eldest, suspected that no one knew; and his sibling had picked up the general mood of unease even if he couldn’t articulate it. As their own parents had departed to they-knew-not-where, their father willingly, their mother taken, they found this new development particularly unsettling.

Quoll, the clan’s chieftain, seemed to find it hard to deal with too. Not that he would have let on, especially to a pair as young as Corb and Janch. What he couldn’t hide was that he, along with the elders and soothsayers who advised him, seemed at a loss, despite their many congresses and evocations of the gods.

Now Quoll was trying another tack. In an admission that the mystery had become a threat, he dispensed with counsel and summoned the tribe’s remaining able warriors. In effect that meant all barring the very old and the lame, and youngsters yet to wield a sword in anger. Corb and Janch, consigned to the care of this group, had slipped away and were loitering near the longhouse where the parley was due to take place.

They seated themselves on a stack of firewood and watched as everyone went in. Barrels of ale and flagons of wine were brought to oil the proceedings, and several whole game, steaming from the spit, to keep bellies from rumbling. Never lacking a sense of the theatrical, Quoll arrived last, accompanied by his closest attendants. He appeared drawn and uncharacteristically deflated.

He noticed the hatchlings and slowed, and for a moment they thought they were going to get a dressing-down. But he just looked, an expression on his face they weren’t worldly-wise enough to read. Then he carried on and entered the hut.

The brothers stayed where they were, despite evening drawing in and the air cooling. Perhaps they hoped the adults would come out and miraculously have some kind of answer about what had happened to their sire and their mother.

They could hear the murmur of voices from the longhouse, and occasionally they were raised. With the distorted time sense peculiar to the very young, it seemed to them that they sat there for a very long time. Janch began to grow fractious. Corb was getting bored and thinking of their beds.

There was a commotion inside. It was different to the usual sounds of dispute they were used to when orcs got together to discuss anything. This was an uproar directed at a common object, rather than a disagreement among themselves. The furore was attended by thumps and crashes, as though furniture was being flung about. It reached a pitch and stopped dead. The silence that followed was more disturbing.

It didn’t occur to them to run and hide. Even in ones so young that wasn’t the orcs’ way. Nevertheless, Corb hesitated for long moments. Finally he stood, and Janch did too. Puffing out his chest, he walked towards the hut, his perplexed brother beside him.

There was another brief wavering at the longhouse’s only door. Corb took out the scaled-down axe Haskeer had given him, and Janch produced his own, which stiffened their resolve. Corb went on tip-toe to reach the handle, turned it and gave the door a shove. It swung open and they peered inside.

The interior was empty. A long, solid table was askew. Chairs were overturned. Scraps of food and tankards littered the floor. The windows were still shuttered.

An odour hung in the air, which if they could have named it they would have called sulphurous.

These were strange days in Acurial.

Nobody really knew what was responsible, despite a glut of theories, and the not knowing was breeding mistrust and something close to fear. It was a toxic combination for the new, still fragile order.

Brelan and Chillder, twin rulers, were coming away from the latest occurrence. They’d tried to keep it a secret, like all the others, but rumour and hearsay were more fleet than any clampdown they could hope to impose. The incidents had increased to the point where concealment was not only near impossible but probably counterproductive, given the twins’ espousal of openness. But whether the truth was preferable to speculation was a moot point.

This time it had happened near the outskirts of Taress, the capital city. Twenty-three orcs of all ranks had gone, from a mess hall in an army camp originally built by the Peczan occupiers. It had followed the now familiar pattern. No warning. No hint as to how the victims could be spirited away from a confined space in a supposedly secure area. No obvious similarities as to who had been taken, except that they were militia. No real signs of violence, beyond a small amount of disorder. No one left to tell the tale.

To give themselves space to think, away from eavesdroppers and questioning gazes, the twins had taken a walk along the semi-rural roads.

“We’ll have to announce a state of emergency,” Brelan said. “Impose martial law.”

“You know I’ve got doubts about that,” his sister argued. “It’d only cause alarm, and maybe start a panic.”

“The citizens have a right to protect themselves.”

“How? We can’t do that now. The military can’t protect themselves. What chance would the ordinary orc on the street have? I say we inform them rather than do anything draconian.”

“And you think that wouldn’t cause a panic? Let them know what’s going on, yes, but back it with troops on the streets, a curfew, checkpoints and-”

“That smacks of the occupation days.”

“It’s for their own good.”

“Which sounds like the kind of language Peczan used to justify their oppression.”

“We’re not Peczan.”

“Of course we’re not. But it’s a matter of how we’re seen. Don’t forget that our race has finally regained its combative spirit. Give the wrong impression and we could risk another uprising, against us this time. You’re overlooking the political dimension to this.”

“Gods, Chillder, is that what we’ve come to? Thinking like damn politicians?”

“Like it or not, it’s what we are. All we can hope to do is be a different kind. The sort that puts the citizens before self-interest.”

“I wonder if that’s how all politicians start out. You know, with good intentions that get corrupted by power and expediency.”

“Our mother didn’t go that way. And we’re not going to.”

“I can’t wait for us to set up the citizens’ committees. Give the ordinary folk a say, spread the load and the decision-making.”

“Yes, well, that’s going to have problems of its own no doubt, though I’m with you on it. But there’s no benefit in going over that now. We’ve a more pressing concern.”

“Which we’re no nearer solving.”

“Look, it’s the militia that’s taking the brunt of… whatever it is that’s happening. I’m right in saying that, aren’t I? There have been no civilian disappearances?”

“As far as we know. It’s difficult to be sure, mind.”

“Let’s assume that’s the case and beef up security for the military even more.”

“How?”

“Some kind of buddy system maybe, with one unit keeping an eye on another unit.”

“And who keeps an eye on them?”

“Or we get all military personnel to check in at really short, regular intervals. Or have them all eat and sleep in the open, in plain sight. Or… whatever. My point is that it shouldn’t be beyond our wit to come up with safeguards.”

“Measures like that would cripple the army. How effective a fighting force would they be, if we needed them, under those sort of restraints? Not to mention we’d be a laughing stock, and that’s hardly going to reassure the populace.”

“What, then?”

“A state of emergency is all I can think of. Even though you’re right: it’s not the ideal solution.”

“It’s not a solution at all, Brelan.” She let her frustration show and added irately, “If only we knew what was doing this!”

“You mean who. It still seems to me that Peczan’s behind it, somehow.”

“We’ve been through that. How could they be? And I don’t buy the idea that they have agents among our own kind.”

He sighed. “Neither do I. Look, I need to think. Would you mind making your own way back? I’d like to linger here for just a while.”

“If you say so. You’ll be all right?”

“Course I will. I’ll see you later.”

They had walked quite a way as they talked, and were now on what was essentially a country road. There were hardly any houses to be seen, and the nearest was almost out of sight. Open fields stretched from both sides of the road. There wasn’t much else except a sluggish stream and the occasional stand of trees. Brelan took himself to the edge of one of the fields and stood looking out across it. Chillder gave him a last glance and set off towards where they’d come from, lost in her own thoughts.

She didn’t know what it was that made her stop, just a short way along the road. It wasn’t a sound, it was a feeling. She turned.

Brelan was nowhere to be seen. Chillder stayed where she was for a moment, expecting to see him reappear. He didn’t, and she began walking back. Then she broke into a run.

When she arrived at the spot where she had left her brother, there was no sign. She scanned the fields on either side of the road, but saw nothing. There was no shelter of any kind, certainly nothing near enough for him to have reached in so short a time. It occurred to her that he might have set off across the field for some reason and fallen into the long grass. But she knew how unlikely that was. She called his name, and got no reply. Again she yelled, louder, with her hands on either side of her mouth, and kept on calling.

A chill was creeping up her spine. And she noticed something in the air, an odour both familiar and forbidding.

The feeling she had experienced as she was walking away returned. She couldn’t put in words what it was, but it was no less tangible for that. An awful oppression fell upon her, and her head was starting to swim. She felt faint and slightly nauseous. Her surroundings seemed to blur and she was unsteady on her feet. She tried to fight it.

It was no use.

Darkness took her.