“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.