The Hoard of Mhorrer

by M. F. W. Curran

  Singling out one of the brothers, Peruzo gave instructions to get rid of the two horses, knowing too well what would happen if they were found outside the inn. As he and William went to their rooms, the lieutenant forced words out from between his compressed lips; the effort seemed to hurt him. ‘We cannot stay in Rashid,’ he said.

  ‘You’re right,’ William agreed. ‘We must push on at first light.’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘East, to the Sinai. We know that much from Greynell’s letter.’

  ‘I will have them ready at first light, Captain,’ Peruzo promised, and hobbled away down the sloping hall.

  ‘Peruzo,’ William called after him. ‘I haven’t thanked you for saving my life back there.’

  The lieutenant paused and looked over his shoulder. ‘I save your life; you save mine.’

  ‘Still, it bears thanking,’ William said and smiled.

  Peruzo nodded, and was about to walk away, but there was something else on William’s mind.

  ‘Have you really killed a woman before?’ he asked.

  Peruzo halted. He walked back towards William, still holding his jaw, the ache almost tangible. ‘Yes,’ he confided. ‘I killed my wife.’

  William was shocked, but did not show it. In all the years he had known Peruzo, this admission was the most startling, yet was he really surprised that such a ghost dominated his history? Peruzo was William’s senior in the War by many years, and had come to the Papacy with a background largely unknown. That something dark should lurk in his past was perhaps the mark of such a veteran campaigner.

  ‘She was lying with another man,’ The lieutenant explained. ‘I was as young as you are now, and wild at heart. I was certain I could never hurt her . . . yet she deceived me, and I was angry.

  ‘I followed her to a villa in Naples and found them naked together. So I did what any man would do: I challenged her lover there and then. We fought; I was driven by savage rage. When he was wounded and could not fight further, I would not spare him. I cut him again and again, left him to bleed to death as he begged for mercy. But my wife threw herself in the way of a death-blow that would have finished it. I killed her by chance. Just by chance . . . You see, even in my rage I would never have harmed her’

  William looked at Peruzo sadly.

  The lieutenant composed himself. ‘Most of the old soldiers in the Order have similar tales to tell, Captain. Mine is no different. We came here for absolution. I had the choice to join this War, but I did so out of guilt.’

  William nodded distantly, considering his own path that had led to the Order.

  ‘Good night, Captain,’ Peruzo said, a little brighter than before, as though unburdened by the confession.

  ‘Let Filippo look at that jaw in the morning,’ William replied casually. He wanted to say more, to say they did well to survive, that despite the loss of Nico and Leone they had destroyed a daemon. But it was scant comfort. For the first time in almost seven years, William felt out of his depth.

  II

  Marco stirred in his bed and opened his eyes. The room was impenetrably dark, silent but for one monk’s snores on the other side. He rubbed his eyes and tried to close them again, but whatever had caused him to wake, either the snoring or his own thoughts, he felt too alert to try sleeping and instead stared up at the ceiling, his vision adjusting until he could make out the outline of coving and angular cracks.

  After some minutes had passed, he pushed himself up and swung his legs from under the blanket. Pulling on boots that were a little too big, just like the uniform borrowed from Brother Jericho, he stepped silently across the floor and out of the door. The hall was as dark as the room, except for a small window at the end where the moon was attempting to shine through. Marco peeked down to the opposite end and saw a faint glow from the last doorway. Curious, he slipped quietly towards it and, taking the edge of the doorframe with his fingers, peered within.

  Inside the room, sitting across from a plate littered with crumbs of cheese and a crust of bread, a hunched figure bent over a piece of parchment. One hand held a quill, and his face flickered in the candlelight.

  ‘Who is that? Marco?’ William said as he looked up into the gloom.

  Marco felt embarrassed. ‘Uncle,’ he replied gently.

  William faced him, displaying his unease. ‘Why are you awake?’

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ he replied.

  ‘Try,’ William grumbled, and looked down at the paper again.

  ‘You can’t sleep either,’ Marco remarked with a shrug.

  ‘No,’ William said. ‘I have things to do.’

  Marco shrugged again. ‘Would you like me to go?’

  William scowled and was about to tell him ‘Yes’, but found he was glad of the company. He’d been scribbling in silence for an hour now and had managed just a few botched attempts at writing a letter to England.

  ‘No, come in,’ he accepted, and beckoned the boy forward. Marco took the chair opposite and sat down, accidentally knocking William’s jacket from the back. He went down quickly to gather it up and hung it securely again, his hands shaking a little in his haste.

  ‘What woke you?’ William asked.

  ‘Someone was snoring,’ Marco replied.

  William laughed. ‘That would be Jericho,’ he said.

  Marco smiled, but said nothing out of respect for the monk. ‘What are you writing?’ he asked, glancing down at the paper in front.

  William looked as though he too had just made acquaintance with the sheets. Flustered by the question, he tidied the paper into an organized pile. ‘Oh . . . just a letter to England,’ he replied. ‘I thought it would be a splendid time to write home.’

  Marco nodded, peering over. He noticed the mass of crossings-out.

  ‘Is it hard to write?’

  William’s cheeks reddened. ‘Very,’ he said and then sighed. ‘The hardest letter I have ever attempted. I haven’t written home in so many months I don’t know where to start.’ He paused, appearing a little overwhelmed. ‘They probably believe I’m dead by now. I have conjured so much illusion that unravelling it would seem impossible. I have lied about the fates of those near to me, and lied about my own welfare. I’ve lied so much to my own family that my conscience is stained. I need to scrub it clean, Marco. I need to explain truthfully why I haven’t written to them, not the fantasy I contrived before.’

  ‘You deceived them?’

  ‘I had little choice. I cannot avow my true profession. How would they understand? For instance, if I wrote to them about the fates of Leone and Nico, what could I say?’ As he spoke, William remembered that Marco did not know what had happened mere hours before.

  ‘We lost two men tonight.’

  ‘Two brothers?’ Marco whispered, scarcely believing.

  ‘Nico and Leone,’ William confided. ‘Leone served with me at Aosta. He was a good man, trustworthy and strong. I still marvel how we escaped Aosta when so many did not. Providence I suppose.’ He looked down at the paper and ripped the scribbled page into shreds. ‘But not now ,’ he said and put his weary hands to his head. ‘Providence has deserted us it seems.

  ‘For this mission I was promised three Arabic speakers. Vittore confessed he is having trouble understanding the dialect here, and Leone and Greynell are both dead. With vampyres in Rashid, we have little time to find another translator.’

  ‘Vampyres?’ Marco was horrified. Vampyres were a distant rumour, creatures in the shadows that no one in Villeda had seen in recent years. Yet to be so close . . . To know someone murdered by one brought the myths one shuddering step closer. Marco shivered.

  ‘Are you scared?’ William asked.

  Marco nodded awkwardly.

  ‘The idea is terrifying, I know,’ William agreed. ‘It is a fear every man in the Order must face. The fear of the unknown, the unusual and macabre. But we must take that fear into our hearts, and understand it. Use it against our enemy.’

  ‘How?’ Marco whispered, wrappin
g his arms about him.

  William grinned. ‘The enemy uses surprise and terror as a weapon. If you forget the terror, then you disarm the enemy .’

  Marco shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I can.’

  ‘Nor are many initiates in the Order. But they do. Eventually,’ William said. ‘I was terrified when I first met a vampyre.’

  ‘You were?’ Marco said, drawing some hope.

  ‘All men are,’ William said.

  ‘I will be different. I promise,’ Marco said.

  William reached over and placed his hand on Marco’s shoulder. ‘You hope to be,’ he said, ‘but there is a difference between hope and what happens. I would not be angry if you panicked and ran at the first sight of a vampyre, Marco.’

  Marco shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t . . . I . . .’

  ‘You would,’ William insisted, though not in a cruel way. It was comforting and sympathetic. ‘But that is why your company on this journey could be folly.’

  Marco shrugged off William. ‘You’re sending me away.’

  ‘No . . .’ William said, holding up his hand. ‘. . . I’m considering – only considering, mind – sending you back on the next ship to Naples with one of the brothers. Probably Jericho.’

  ‘I will not run!’ Marco insisted.

  William rubbed at the side of his head, wearied by Marco’s protests. ‘I cannot protect you,’ he admitted finally. He looked up fondly at Marco. ‘If I cannot protect you, then you will die here, Marco.’

  ‘I can protect my—’

  ‘You are quick with a sword, but it takes more than that,’ William interrupted him. ‘It takes wits, experience and a talent for survival.’

  Marco gazed around the room, his mouth open to retort. but he couldn’t. There was no instant reply to these accusations.

  ‘Tonight was a trap. The vampyres were waiting for us, as I suspect they waited for Charles Greynell,’ William told him. ‘Even experienced men like Peruzo and me stepped straight into it. They are deceitful, manipulative and wily. And there are more here than I have ever encountered before. I do not know if I can protect you from them.’

  Marco nodded. ‘Then maybe you should send me home. If they scare you so much, I should leave.’

  William was surprised by the reproach. ‘It’s not about a personal fear . . .’

  Marco looked back, saddened. ‘Yes it is! It’s about what you fear, not I!’

  Now it was William who fell silent.

  ‘You think you are the only one who has something to fight for? What about my family murdered in Tresta? How about them? And how about you? I’ve seen how Adriana is sad when you leave. She never says it, but she fears you will not return. She fears you’ll be killed. I don’t want her to fear any more. I don’t want to see you killed. You are our family. My uncle.’

  William looked taken aback. His throat went suddenly dry, overcome with remorse. He hadn’t expected this at all. ‘She said that?’

  ‘She thinks that you have been lucky so far, and that one day . . .’ Marco stopped himself as William’s expression hardened.

  ‘. . . One day my luck will desert me,’ William said and looked away, somewhat guiltily.

  ‘I am not afraid to die,’ Marco told him.

  William didn’t look at him straight away, fearing what he would see. If it was just bravado, Marco’s eyes would falter, and that contrived demeanour would crumble. A brave boast that was beyond him, used to convince William to keep him in Egypt. And then William could send him home.

  But if it was genuine . . . What then?

  William looked up, and his heart sank. Marco didn’t flinch, didn’t falter, earnest with his expression. Marco believed what he was saying.

  ‘Damn it,’ he murmured and got up from the table. Marco rose and William pulled him into an embrace. ‘You have grown up too damned quickly.’

  Marco let out a sob of relief. ‘I can stay?’

  ‘You can stay,’ William conceded.

  You will not regret this,’ he said with boyish enthusiasm.

  William winced, and wondered why he had conceded so easily. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Get some sleep’

  Marco was giddied by the prospect of adventure and stumbled off the chair to reach the door. With one hand on the handle, he turned to his uncle. ‘I meant what I said,’ he told him. ‘I’m not afraid to die’

  William nodded. ‘We will not die, I promise you.’

  III

  Next morning, the men assembled hastily. With calm precision, the horses were aligned at the front of the inn. Peruzo checked the two waiting wagons and saw that each one was loaded with equipment and provisions. William watched nearby stifling a yawn. He was battling the lack of sleep that had dogged him almost all night long. It was always the same during a mission; his mind was restless, constantly thinking of tactics, of the strategy to succeed. Rarely did he allow himself the simple luxury of rest.

  Feeling fastidious, William stepped forward to look over the wagons in his turn. There were rifles, other specialist weapons, crates of ammunition and something else: a small cannon that was hooked up to a mechanism that appeared to swivel from left to right as well as elevate, all stored and compact within each inch of deck space.

  ‘A dwarf-cannon,’ Lieutenant Vittore said by his shoulder. ‘I brought it from Spain. It’s quite effective against daemons.’

  William patted the barrel. It was made of hardened metal and was three feet in length.

  ‘We will need it,’ he said solemnly, casting his thoughts to the night before. ‘But cannon will not address more immediate concerns: our route to the Sinai, and how to find the Hoard once we get there.’

  ‘How big can the Sinai be?’ Peruzo said, overhearing the conversation.

  ‘It is vast, Peruzo, and featureless,’ Vittore boasted. ‘I have maps of the region. The Sinai is a desert of rock and sand, and very little else.’

  ‘In the absence of Greynell, you have become our guide and translator, Vittore,’ William told him. ‘We are fast running out of time, gentlemen. Ensure we are ready to leave within the hour. What is this?’

  Both lieutenants came over to where William was now standing at the second wagon, pointing at several kegs at the rear.

  Vittore shrugged. ‘They accompanied the brothers from Villeda. No one knows their purpose, except for a letter addressed to you, Captain.’ He passed the note to William, who stepped aside and opened the letter in private. It was written in English.

  Dear William

  I promised I would provide you with an alternative. Contained in each keg is a compound derived from the finest chemists in Rome and the brightest minds. Be warned, its strength is ten times that of conventional gunpowder, and a small quantity could bring down a building or even a hillock. I would think such a material would be helpful to you, whether in battle, or in barter should money fail, or for use as a last resort on the Hoard itself.

  Remember, the final destruction of the Scarimadaen is paramount. How this is done, with whom and where, is a decision you will make on your own.

  Good luck, my dear friend.

  And good hunting,

  Engrin

  William folded the letter with renewed hope. It was a comfort, almost as though the old man was watching them, and he held the letter in his hands for a few more moments to dwell on this spark of optimism.

  William turned briskly to the officers. ‘Vittore, plan a route that will take us through villages, oases and any place that can provide respite from the desert. I don’t wish to be without water or food on our journey. We may have a hard battle to fight at the end of our travels.’

  ‘It will be done.’ Lieutenant Vittore left to find somewhere quiet to plan.

  Peruzo waited patiently.

  ‘Those kegs could mean our salvation,’ William told him. ‘Put them under guard. And whatever happens, keep flame away from them, lest we wipe out the entire company by a fell accident.’

  Peruzo looked surprised. ‘Gunpowder for V
ittore’s cannon?’

  ‘No. Something else,’ William replied as two riders appeared at the top of the street. They were dressed as local men, in gowns and headscarves. At first William suspected aggression and reached for his sword, but quickly brothers Paolo and Orlando pulled away their garments to reveal the grey uniform of the Order, tossing their headscarves and disguises to the ground.

  ‘What news?’ William called out.

  ‘The local militia are looking for us, we think,’ Paolo reported.

  ‘You think?’ William echoed. He didn’t want opinions.

  Orlando explained. ‘We saw armed men in the streets around the Arab quarter – soldiers who carried more weapons than normal regimented men. They accosted people in the road not far from where the brothel stood. We could not approach in case our deception was uncovered. A French merchant told us they were looking for men in grey who burned down Babel’s.’

  ‘Blast . . ’ William cursed quietly.

  ‘And we’ve been marked as thieves, Captain,’ Paolo added nervously.

  ‘Thieves?’ Peruzo frowned.

  ‘The horses,’ William said. It was another decision that was beginning to blight the mission, like so many over the last few days.

  Will they be coming after us?’ Peruzo wondered.

  ‘Only when they know where we are,’ William said. ‘And they will know eventually. If rumours spread so fast around Babel’s, they’ll spread fast from here. Have the men mount up, Peruzo. Our stay in Rashid is over.

  IV

  The sun climbed from the east and burned across the road out of Rashid, shortening the shadows of the forty men riding away, two wagons trailing behind them. The suburbs of Rashid ended abruptly. Ahead lay a dusty track dividing green plains and hills. The land here was lush and plentiful, with tall grass that leant over in the morning breeze.

  William had imagined that beyond the town would be this great expanse of desert he had heard about. To find this was not so was surprising, yet the heat from the morning sun still caused the summits of hills and the horizon to shimmer. This early in the day its effects were not apparent, but later the intense warmth would make a man feel sluggish and grubby; and then the enemy of all soldiers, lethargy, would creep into flesh and spirit.