Jup found that intriguing, and began questioning Dynahla about it. Engrossed, the dwarf and the fetch waved vaguely at Coilla and Pepperdyne as they left the bridge together.
“Quite a character,” Pepperdyne said.
“Impressive though,” Coilla replied. “It was the dead spit of Haskeer.” She grinned. “And you’ve got to admit it was funny.”
“Yes. But one thing worries me, just a bit.”
“What’s that?”
“Dynahla can impersonate any of us, perfectly. How comfortable are you about having someone like that in the band?”
16
The veil between the worlds is thin as gauze, unbridgeable as an ocean. It separates an incalculable number of realities, an infinite array of glittering pinpoints hanging in the velvet firmament. Seen closer, if that were possible, they reveal themselves as globes. Some are barren rocks, or beset with volcanic activity, or icebound. A few are fertile.
Two species lived beneath the blue skies and pure white clouds of one such world. The race of humans had carved out a far-flung domain, the Peczan empire, now suffering its first setback despite its great military strength and possession of magic. The newly liberated race of orcs, cause of that humiliation, occupied a more remote, much smaller segment of the planet. Bolstered by their reawakened martial spirit, they were resolved never to fall under human dominance again.
The orcs’ land was Acurial. Taress, its largest city by far and the capital, had borne the brunt of the recent occupation. Free at last, the populace determined to erase all trace of Peczan’s regime. Buildings that had been commandeered were returned to their original purpose. Structures built by the empire were being torn down, with detention camps, torture facilities and execution blocks the objects of particular fury. Guard stations, billets, signposts and anything else pertaining to the overthrown were demolished and consigned to bonfires, along with portraits of Peczan bureaucrats and military chiefs. Marble busts were pounded to smithereens.
At the same time, Taress was rebuilding itself. Invasion and rebellion had devastated many parts of the city, and legions toiled on reconstruction.
The main square had been one of the first areas to be reclaimed. Work there took a commemorative form. Statues had been erected. The tallest, although in many ways the simplest, honoured the late Principal Sylandya. Acurial’s ruler before Peczan’s occupation, and leader of the resistance, her martyrdom was the spark that gave fire to the revolution. She was shown seated, but didn’t give the impression of being enthroned, as would be expected of a head of state. Her attire and demeanour were humble, her expression mild. The sculptor had made no effort to flatter her memory by disguising her advancing years, as might have been the case with a more vain subject. Her frame was slight, even frail. Yet she exuded an unmistakable authority.
Two orcs stood at the monument’s base, looking up at the figure. They were twins, male and female, and less than thirty summers old.
“What would she have thought of this?” Chillder wondered.
“Not much, I reckon,” her brother replied. “Our mother had little time for the conceits of power. It was one of her many virtues.”
“So was dealing with the mountain of parchmentwork that plagues us now.”
“Not as exciting as fighting as rebels, is it?”
“No, Brelan, it’s not.”
“But it’s what running a state’s all about. It has to be done.”
“You’re more like mother than I am in that way. I think you like shuffling paper.”
He smiled. “Like I said; it has to be done. Taking care of the formalities is a price we pay for getting our freedom back.”
“I wish she was here to guide us through it,” Chillder said, nodding at the statue.
“Me too.”
“And if it hadn’t been for that bitch Jennesta,” she added bitterly, “she would be.”
“I know. But our mother’s death wasn’t in vain. If she hadn’t perished as she did the revolution might never have happened.”
“I’m not sure about that. Either way, Jennesta went unpunished, and that sticks in my craw.”
He gave her a moment, then, “Come on,” he urged gently, “we ought to be moving.”
They headed across the square.
“Of course, she might have been,” Brelan said.
“Who might have been what?”
“Jennesta. Punished. For all we know, the warband reckoned with her.”
“Or they might have suffered the same fate as our mother. The frustrating thing is we’ll probably never know.”
They arrived at the shadow of another monument, and slowed to a halt despite the pressing nature of their business. It was larger than Sylandya’s, though squat rather than tall, and housed on a pedestal no more than waist height from the ground. Five life-sized figures were depicted; four orcs, one of them female, and a dwarf. They were in heroic poses, weapons drawn. To the rear of the group was a low stone wall that acted as a backdrop. This bore a carving along its entire length, showing a further twenty or more of the principals’ comrades. Controversially for many in Taress, it also showed a human.
The front of the monument was strewn with necklaces of fangs, pots of wine, embellished weapons, sketches of the heroes, not all of them crudely executed, and other offerings. In a not very orc-like gesture, there were even some bunches of flowers. The monument’s base carried a plain inscription reading “ The Wolverines.”
“And what do you suppose they would think about this?” Brelan asked, echoing his sister’s earlier question.
“Haskeer would have liked it. Not sure the others would care much.” She turned to him. “Where could they have gone, Brelan? Do you think they’re still alive?”
“Well, you can bet they didn’t return to their so-called northern lands. I never did buy that. As to whether they’re still alive…” He shrugged. “Who knows? I’m just grateful they came here when they did.”
“Except for the human. The slimy one.”
“Standeven.”
She nodded. “Orc killer.”
“Maybe.”
“How can you doubt it?”
“You’re probably right. But I can’t help thinking even he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to murder one of us in our own land.”
“The pity is we let him get away with it.”
“There was no proof.”
“How much did you need?”
“That’s all water under the bridge, Chillder, and something else we can’t do anything about. Now can we get a move on? We’ve a problem to deal with, remember.”
They resumed their journey.
The streets leading off the square were bustling. Extensive rebuilding work was going on and laden carts jammed the thoroughfares. Passers-by stared as Brelan and Chillder passed, and some waved. They were public figures now.
As they walked, Chillder said, “I sometimes wonder whether we should be doing all this work.”
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“Peczan’s pride took a battering. How do we know they won’t invade again, if only to save face?”
“We’ve got as many hands putting up defences as rebuilding. More. If the humans come back we’ll know it, and this time they’d face a population ready to fight.”
“Would they? Grilan-Zeat’s gone now. What worries me is that our warlike spirit’s going to fade along with the comet’s memory.”
“I don’t think so. Our folk have had a taste of the freedom that fighting brought them. They won’t easily forget that.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Trust me. We’ve more important things to worry about, not least trying to replenish our plundered treasury, thanks to Jennesta.”
“And now this… strangeness. What the hell’s happening, Brelan?”
“Damned if I know. Maybe we’ll learn something from this new event.”
They pushed on, moving away from the centre and entering less crowded streets. The further they went the more they saw of the defensive measures Brelan referred to. In piazzas, or open spaces where buildings had burnt down during the uprising, citizens were being drilled. Mobile road blocks, consisting of hay wagons loaded with rocks, stood at the side of major avenues. Rooftops were utilised as lookout points, and in some places purpose-built watchtowers were under construction. The threat of re-invasion was being taken seriously.