The Hoard of Mhorrer

by M. F. W. Curran

  William frowned. ‘What’s in Egypt?’

  ‘I don’t know. These are but rumours after all, but the Secretariat is very much excited.’

  ‘And you can’t tell me more?’

  Engrin shook his head.

  ‘Always the same Engrin,’ William replied. ‘So full of riddles. I suppose only you and the Secretariat know the truth.’

  Engrin looked into his cup and coughed slightly. ‘I no longer visit Rome these days. I leave such things to greater men than . . .’

  ‘Greater than you? Who in the Secretariat stands so high?’ William scoffed, and took a mouthful of ale.

  ‘Cardinal Devirus for one.’ Engrin shook his head.

  ‘Devirus?’ William repeated. ‘He of all people should realize the necessity of your wisdom and . . .’

  ‘The cardinal only recognizes I am old,’ Engrin interrupted.

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘William, I am old. Too old for adventure. Too old to offer an opinion.’

  ‘I value your opinions,’ William told him squarely, ‘and if the Secretariat does not, well then, we’ll see what they say once I’ve . . .’

  ‘Do nothing, William.’ Engrin held up a weary hand. ‘Some part of me is glad that I’m no longer at their beckoning. No longer part of their politics.’

  ‘This is not the same Engrin Meerwall I know,’ William remarked.

  ‘Perhaps not. But the Engrin I too used to know is long since gone, before we even met. I lack the strength to argue my corner. I have disagreed with the Secretariat, and they no longer listen. There’s nothing you can do. Just as a captain cannot argue with his general, you cannot argue with the cardinal.’

  ‘Really?’ William jeered. ‘Well, I like to think I carry some weight with the Secretariat.’

  Engrin reached over and patted William’s arm. ‘Your respect and friendship is touching, but quite unnecessary,’ he said. ‘You should concentrate on what is to come.’

  ‘You mean these “rumours”?’

  Engrin nodded. ‘When the Secretariat sends an entire company of monks to a country outside Europe, you’d best take notice.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Greatest Mission

  I

  William rose early and rode out of Villeda, taking the long and well-worn road down the valley to Rome. He passed fields waking with cattle and goats, orchards alive with birds beginning their chorus. The first rays of morning sunshine filtered through burgeoning clouds as he entered the suburbs of Rome hours later. Soon he was trotting past the courtesans and courtiers who prowled the streets even this early in the morning. Some woke with the dawn, and dressed up in pomp and ceremony to impress not only the other sex but anyone of note who happened by The people of Rome were all rivals, it seemed, whether for affection, wealth or status. William was glad not to be a part of it.

  Past a bridge over the Tiber, the main road to San Pietro appeared through the throng of journeymen and priests streaming from one side to the other. William guided his horse through them, tailing an elaborate carriage that cut a path straight over the bridge and into the street beyond. In the distance stood the ashen dome of San Pietro, the mid-morning sun casting long shadows upon it and the piazza at its feet.

  The road was flanked by great pale buildings, their balconies filled with flowers and with courtiers already busy watching the great and the good travel up and down the promenade. William likened it to watching a circus; aspiring individuals from all over the Continent seemed to find their way to the steps of the Vatican through their own self-importance or because they were seeking something else. Sometimes it was spiritual. But often it was financial.

  William could see what kept Engrin away. In the seven years since his first visit to the Vatican and its surrounds, the area had flourished from its battered state into a thriving yet greedy community. It was something William had noticed in each of the countries he had visited since, that smell of corruption. The Church was in decline, a steady one that might have started hundreds of years ago, but it was obvious now as he passed the final ranks of great houses on the street and appeared at the Piazza San Pietro. A new age was coming, the age of the proletariat and insurrection.

  The piazza was as busy as the promenade, priests and bishops walking to and fro. Monks stood in discussion with others, and sisters communed together, gesticulating to the great dome or a saint far above on the baroque arches surrounding the square.

  Even after so many visits to the Vatican, William was always impressed by its magnificence. but the weight in his saddlebag, the Scarimadaen from Prague, seemed to dull all this into insignificance.

  He trotted his horse around the piazza, under the arches and then down the adjacent and crowded street of buildings and traders, before he followed the high wall around Vatican City to a rear entrance where several Papal guards stood in their blue and yellow uniforms. Recognizing William’s uniform, they let him through the gates to the stables.

  He stabled his mount and walked through the gardens to several small buildings hidden under ivy, known as the Chambers of Deconstruction. These were the furnaces of the Secretariat, the buildings populated by a scant number of monks tutored in a specific area of exorcism and destruction: the perfect men to dispose of the instruments of the Devil.

  At the entrance to the building was a single plain door belying what lay within. William felt a certain satisfaction as he hoisted the Scarimadaen in the bag. No longer would this instrument be used; no longer would its daemon be let loose upon mankind.

  With a slight swagger, William pulled open the door and marched boldly inside.

  He didn’t stay long. After seeing the Scarimadaen destroyed by the rituals of the Order, William left quickly and entered San Pietro via the rooms under the Sistine Chapel. The doors opened onto a small courtyard and then a second door led through into the basilica itself.

  St Peter’s was hushed, but William marched on, unabashed by the sounds of his sturdy boots thudding across the stone floor, which caused several priests to glance his way forbiddingly. William marched on under the marble-stares of great saints and martyrs, not pausing to look at the paintings adorning the walls, the gold filigree in the decorations nor any of the art that made most visitors to St Peter’s weep.

  For what was a painting by Raphael compared with the slaughter of innocents by a rampaging daemon?

  From the basilica, he made his way down a flight of steps to the grottoes, the tunnel before him adorned with more elaborate paintings curving under the ceiling and gilding the walls. Turning left, he came to a large oak door flanked by two papal guards who let him pass as soon as they saw him.

  He put his head down and made the long cool journey underground, past the tombs of saints and popes, along rows of alcoves lit by candles that were tended to dutifully every morning and every evening by novices and clergy.

  The number of alcoves dwindled. The descent to the next level brought a chill, and William wrapped his jacket about him. Ahead the tunnel sloped downwards, l it sporadically by lamps. Occasionally there would be the scrit-scrit of a rat or some other creature scurrying away.

  Eventually he came to a set of thick doors. On either side stood not the papal guards, but monks of the Order.

  ‘Captain,’ they greeted and William nodded to them.

  ‘Another victory, sir?’ asked one as he passed between them, his hands pressing on the door.

  ‘You may give thanks, gentlemen,’ William replied.

  The brothers of the Order smiled and looked pleased, perhaps dreaming of the day they might follow Captain Saxon on a mission against the Count.

  William felt his step lighten as he pushed open the doors and strode into the room beyond, a small reception room that housed the records of the Secretariat on tall oak shelves. Between two of the imposing shelves of books hung a crimson curtain that swayed from a subterranean breeze. William pulled it aside and crept down the dark passageway behind it. The tunnel ceiling was low, yet after fre
quent visits he knew by instinct when to lower his head.

  At the end of the passage was another room, brightly lit by candles and lamps. It was decorated elaborately, though a visitor might have noted how it eschewed the themes of the basilica and the rest of the Vatican. Instead were paintings and objects of another kind: of men struggling with a menagerie of mythical beasts, creatures with wings of flame, cloven-hoofed monstrosities, bulbous and bloated beings with many eyes, columns of flame and those who cowered before them.

  There were also the instruments of war: the sword of Saint Sallian still gleaming in its glass case, and by that a pyramid, not unlike the one William had delivered for destruction. This one was made of gold, and William looked upon it for a moment, as he often did, listening to the slight hum beneath the glass that housed it. He had once marvelled why the Secretariat had not destroyed this Scarimadaen: its danger was unparalleled. Yet over the years he came to understand its purpose, and for every visit he found himself meditating on it, a reminder of what the pyramid represented. And what they all fought for.

  For this was terror unlimited. The eye to Hell itself.

  William was stirred by voices beyond the stairs and the circular wall. He walked past the Scarimadaen, past more collections of books and drawings, before ducking through a low doorway and into the dazzling light beyond.

  Here was the map room, a wide circular room overlooked by a gallery high above. On its floor was a map of the known world fashioned completely from gold, perhaps the only excess in the Secretariat but one that rivalled most of the art in the Vatican. It was said the wealth of that room might have been that of a small state, yet to all those who worked at the Secretariat, the map was worth so much more.

  On the surface were candles of many colours: blues, greens, reds, and golds. By Prague stood a single candle, its flame a bright green as it crackled and fizzed, newly placed upon the map. Not so far away was a larger candle, a red flame that burned atop a bulbous mass of cream-coloured wax that had built up over many years. It was the oldest of the candles, and one that had been replaced time and time again.

  ‘Every visit, you look upon that flame, Captain Saxon,’ some-one said from the far side of the circular room.

  William smiled faintly. ‘For I wish to be the one who snuffs it out for ever, Your Eminence.’

  ‘I look forward to that,’ came the reply, ‘though your confrontation with Count Ordrane of Draak must wait a while longer.’

  Half in the shadows was a lectern that sat just north of the Continent in the icy regions of the world; from this Cardinal Devirus emerged, his feet crossing over Scandinavia until his toes stopped on the edge of Bohemia. He was dressed in immaculate scarlet robes, his face quite plain save for a beard like an arrowhead upon his chin.

  He looked down at the green flame flickering over Prague. ‘I do hope this marker is not presumptuous and indeed there was a victory?’ he asked, his hands clasped inside his robes. He attempted to smile, though every effort seemed like a strain to the cardinal’s naturally sour expression.

  William nodded. ‘I delivered the Scarimadaen to the Chambers before coming here,’ he said.

  ‘Excellent news, Captain,’ Cardinal Devirus applauded. ‘One more Scarimadaen destroyed. Your tally is impressive . Perhaps the greatest there has ever been.’

  The cardinal walked around the Continent of Europe, negotiating the various markers that flickered over cities and towns, until he reached the Atlantic Ocean and stood on its empty expanse. ‘What news from Vienna and Prague?’

  William told Cardinal Devirus everything: from hunting the red-haired vampyre in Vienna, losing several men in the process, to the encounter in Prague and their imprisonment.

  At the end, Cardinal Devirus was stroking his beard. ‘Your imprisonment was unfortunate.’

  William felt chastised. ‘It was unlucky, Your Eminence,’ he replied.

  Cardinal Devirus revealed his hands and wrung them together in deep thought. ‘I will send a delegate to Prague to tidy up this mess that you left,’ he said grumpily, ‘though perhaps it is already too late. I would have hoped that such interference had been negotiated.’

  ‘As would I, Your Eminence,’ William said boldly, ‘but the tactics of the War have changed.’

  Cardinal Devirus stared across at him.

  ‘The War is no longer a secret,’ William clarified.

  ‘Perhaps that is true. It was inevitable that one who is cornered will soon disregard all rules. The Count is wounded and understands his precarious position. Even now he watches the politics of the Continent and wonders if he can survive unmolested,’ Cardinal Devirus mused.

  ‘You’re talking of forces aligning against Ordrane?’ William asked, eager for news.

  ‘Count Ordrane’s influence in the north is weakening. Those he could once frighten into submission are becoming more daring. Even confrontational. Ordrane’s downfall may come sooner than expected. All of which will take time, Captain, so we must be patient.’ Devirus held up his hand to placate William. ‘Now, what of Marresca?’

  William frowned. ‘What of him?’

  ‘You have told me nothing of this request from the Dar’uka. To recruit him,’ Cardinal Devirus rebuked.

  William’s cheeks reddened. ‘How did you know?’

  Cardinal Devirus crossed his arms again and walked around William. ‘Lieutenant Marresca came to me last night to deliver the news. I am his sponsor. He sought my advice.’

  William bowed. ‘I apologize, Your Eminence. I have had little opportunity to ask him myself.’

  ‘His decision must be made tonight, Captain,’ Devirus reminded him. ‘I would have hoped you would speak with me sooner.’

  ‘Again, I apologize,’ William said with difficulty. ‘I wished Marresca to stay. But the Dar’uka left me with no choice but to approach the lieutenant with the bargain.’

  ‘Not much of a bargain,’ Devirus replied. ‘They offer nothing in return.’

  ‘Quite so, Your Eminence,’ William replied quickly, sensing an ally in this cause. ‘We lose the finest soldier this Order has ever known. Any mortal could be a Dar’uka, in my opinion. Marresca is . . .’

  ‘Is what, Captain?’

  ‘He is almost Dar’uka now, Your Eminence. He may not be immortal, but he fights with all the strength, courage and instinct that I have seen from any Dar’uka. If we lose Marresca to allies that we cannot call upon, then we lose a powerful weapon . . . in my opinion, Your Eminence.’

  ‘I agree,’ Devirus replied. ‘But it is not our decision.’

  ‘No, Your Eminence.’

  Cardinal Devirus shook his head. ‘I have advised Marresca, and he knows my mind. Should he agree to the request, we may yet profit. Two former soldiers of the Order in the Dar’uka may benefit us.’

  ‘I disagree, Your Eminence. From experience,’ William said bitterly, thinking of Kieran, ‘friendship and loyalty are lost to them. They care not for our desires.’

  Devirus waved his scrawny hand in the air dismissively. ‘Regardless of Marresca’s decision we have other matters that concern us.’ The cardinal stepped down the side of Africa, planting his feet in the centre of the continent. He pointed down at the section where Africa met the Mediterranean Sea.

  ‘Egypt,’ William said.

  ‘Yes. Egypt.’

  ‘You have sent a company there, I understand.’

  ‘Not just one, but the remnants of another from Spain,’ Cardinal Devirus corrected him. ‘In all, over thirty men with provisions and weapons. And they require a captain.’

  William had an inkling this was coming. ‘I am at your ser-vice, Your Eminence. Of course I will lead them.’

  ‘You must leave soon. Tomorrow morning at the latest.’

  William nodded with difficulty, remembering Adriana. ‘So soon?’ he asked.

  ‘There isn’t a moment to spare,’ Cardinal Devirus replied as he took a seat by the lectern. ‘Does the term “The Hoard of Mhorrer” mean anything to you?�
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  William nodded quickly. ‘Of course. The fabled collection of Scarimadaen lost for thousands of years. Perhaps the greatest concentration of Scarimadaen ever assembled. Two hundred pyramids as I understand it.’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty, Captain Saxon,’ echoed a voice high above them. William looked up into the shadows and saw someone looking down from the gallery.

  ‘Father Antonio, please join us,’ Cardinal Devirus called up.

  The father made his way down the steps and under the arch into the map room, his glasses perched upon his bony nose, unruly strands of hair straggling from his top lip and chin. He was slightly bent, and although not much older than William, he was gaunt and his eyes looked tired.

  ‘Father Antonio,’ William greeted, having met him several times during his visits to the Secretariat.

  ‘Captain, I am delighted to meet you again,’ he said with his high-pitched voice. He looked with nervous excitement over to Cardinal Devirus, who beckoned the priest forward. Under his arm was a large thick book, bound in a material that shimmered like silver. He rested it on the lectern, which creaked under its weight.

  ‘Father Antonio is the most learned man in the Church on matters of Mhorrer,’ Cardinal Devirus said. ‘Please tell Captain Saxon more about the Hoard.’

  Father Antonio’s eyes lit up as he balanced the sizeable tome and opened it at a marked section. ‘As written down in the Book of Man, The history of the Hoard was chronicled in the passages of Gran-Man on Hu-Terra. From what was translated by Nostradamus and Heracles, we know that in the last centuries of Revelation the one we call Mhorrer was entrusted with preparing the world for the coming of our Lord. However, Mhorrer was secretly working with Hell and designed the Scarimadaen, the individual gateways between our world and Hell, from which the spirit of the daemon can return time and time again through a host. It was Mhorrer, The architect of this instrument, who led a sect known as the Eyes of Fire, or Rassis Cult. Their sole cause was to undermine belief in God and to lure Humanity to the Traitor, the prince who governs Hell.