“I’ve never met a race yet, no matter how savage, that wasn’t ultimately capable of some degree of compassion. Why should orcs be an exception?”
“Their actions speak for them.”
“With respect, the goblin folk don’t exactly have an untarnished reputation themselves. No doubt you’d argue that it’s unjustified, and your membership of the Corps is testament to that. But that’s my point. Everything isn’t black and white, as you seem to believe. Life’s messy. We do our best.”
Weevan-Jirst didn’t answer. He just maintained the inscrutable expression common to his kind.
She looked around, saw the broken towers, the mountains of wreckage and the desolation of a wasted world. “You know what I think? Suppose what happened here came about through an interworld conflict, because somebody who shouldn’t have got hold of a set of instrumentalities. I’m not saying it did, but it’s possible, isn’t it? In any case it can stand as an example of the kind of thing that can happen if we fail. I think that makes it a fitting reminder of our purpose. So let’s do our job, shall we?”
“I’ve never wanted anything else.”
“Then it’s time to continue the hunt.”
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,
