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.
