The Hoard of Mhorrer

by M. F. W. Curran

  William’s instructions to Vittore and Peruzo were to keep the brothers mentally and physically primed for action. The riding by day would lull their physical selves into a latent hibernation, having only to sit and let their mounts plod on. There was little he could do to stop the general indolence of the flesh. The mind, however, could be trained, and here William requested that each lieutenant devised games to test a man’s initiative or memory. These could be anything from reciting passages of the Bible from memory, To debating the pros and cons of weapons, the tricks of swordsmanship or any other martial art. It was hoped this would keep them focused on the mission ahead.

  Vittore had mapped out their journey, estimating times of arrival at each rest, ensuring that each day’s end brought somewhere to bed down. On the first night it was a village stable which they paid the owner generously for. Even though Vittore had tried his best to interpret William’s wishes, something was lost in the translation and the price of the lodgings grew alarmingly. Vittore later apologized for whatever errors he’d been ignorant of, but his confidence had been dented and from that moment on he was reluctant to speak any Arabic to the local people, fearing another debacle.

  Of the money they had started out with, a little over half remained. It was a matter William was all too conscious of. He considered that the rest should be held back to buy provisions, yet such frugal desires could not always prevail.

  On the second day out from Rashid, the company reached the Nile delta. It was very wide and the waters were moving rapidly towards the coast. There were no bridges and two small fishing villages were perched on the river’s banks opposite one another. To find another way round would take days, so William and Vittore rode into the village to negotiate a crossing.

  After two hours of translating and impasse, a price was finally agreed on and the local fishermen transported them across the water. Progress was painfully slow. Two horses here. A wagon there. A few men at a time. The village had but three boats and each crossing and return took over an hour.

  The sun was falling by the time the last of the monks had landed at the fishing village opposite. By then they’d created quite a stir among the locals, who had gathered on the banks to watch the foreigners and their horses being ferried across the Nile. William urged Vittore to find a place to stay, but when Brother Paolo found a boy spying on them with a reward poster in his possession, William abandoned that plan.

  On the poster was a likeness of a European, dressed not dissimilarly to the company. Peruzo joked humourlessly that the picture looked very like William. And it did. Vittore did not need to translate the words. It was obvious this had been sent by the Rashid militia. Somehow word of their presence had overtaken them.

  From that night on the company avoided communities, squandering much-needed time in circumventing the villages that littered the roads around the Nile. When the river was bridged and forded they crossed unhindered. Where the river was impassable they paid for crossings, taking risks to get further away from Rashid. And they paid dearly. Their money was running out.

  They spent almost every night under the stars, where the temperatures fell so low that men shivered themselves to sleep when they could, or just stayed awake to stare into the fathomless sky.

  They could not do this all the way to the Sinai, so on the sixth day having finally crossed the Nile delta they approached a village, hoping that here at least they had not heard of the foreign marauders. Luck was with them and the villagers took them into their homes, though again at a cost. The bag of money clinked pitifully now there were only a few coins left. But it was a small price considering the evening’s comfort and the chance to rest somewhere warm.

  Invigorated by the respite, the following morning they set out again, and the land before them began to change from lush green grass to dunes of sand, sparse at first, then stretching as far as the eye could see.

  It was on the tenth day that two scouts galloped up the line. Their horses kicked up dirt and sand, and several brothers threw jovial curses in their direction as dust engulfed them. Both men’s faces were running with sweat, and their horses were blowing.

  The first scout, Brother Ludovico, addressed William. ‘We’ve seen a column of men.’ He gestured westwards. ‘At least one hundred men.’

  ‘So many?’ William frowned, seeking confirmation from the second scout, Donato. The older monk agreed.

  ‘A hundred. And they were armed.’

  Vittore looked unconvinced. ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘All carried weapons of some kind,’ Donato told him. ‘Muskets I think. Swords as well. All of them mounted, and riding in columns of five.’

  ‘As wide as this road,’ Peruzo remarked, looking down.

  ‘Are they following us?’ William asked.

  Ludovico could only shrug.

  William beckoned Peruzo and Vittore closer.

  ‘Best guess?’ he asked.

  ‘If they’re militia, they will be hunting us,’ Peruzo replied.

  ‘We could make a stand,’ Vittore suggested.

  ‘We are not here to fight the locals, Lieutenant,’ William chided.

  ‘We may have little choice, Captain.’

  ‘Can we not take another route?’ Peruzo ventured.

  Vittore looked aggrieved by this. ‘The route I devised was specific . . . Measured out to the mile . . . An oasis for every other night . . .’

  ‘But can we take another route?’ William cut him short.

  Vittore glowered at Peruzo and then looked back at William jadedly. ‘I could try .’

  ‘Do so,’ William said. ‘I don’t fancy facing over a hundred militiamen, no matter what the odds are of victory. Imagine, gentlemen, what would happen if we were to fight them.’

  Peruzo nodded, but not Vittore.

  William explained. ‘This whole country is in the grip of war from one moment to the next. If not with Napoleon’s army, then the British. Now there is a viceroy, Muhammad Ali. He’s a hero to them, driving all enemies before him. And he despises foreigners. If the people adore him as much as I am told, it means his militia will hate us. They’ll be burning to hunt us down and kill us. And if not this company behind us, then a greater army, or a greater one after that. We cannot stand against them, understood?’

  Neither man could refute his summing-up.

  ‘Vittore will find an alternative route and we will conceal our tracks,’ William ordered. ‘Even if it means losing ground on our enemies.’

  V

  The new route took them south. They missed the next oasis by fifteen miles and were forced to sleep under the wagons and the canvas that had been used to screen the weapons. It was a bitter cold night, and no one slept. William sat shivering on a dune, observing the horizon. It was a full moon and this world of great hillocks of sand was calm and pale and eerily quiet. He felt lost in its vastness. The decision to head south brought risks, and he sensed that conditions must soon worsen.

  Next morning, they decamped and rode on, turning east down a little-used track that was soft and sucked at feet or hoofs. Vittore did nothing but grumble, though with a promise they would arrive at their next oasis as planned.

  As day began to fade, the company arrived at the crest of a hill along a shallow track. One of the scouts began waving back to them. Straining his eyes, William looked to the sky and saw a grey smudge against the fading blue. He pulled out his spyglass to focus on the smoky blur and saw a large black plume against the halflight. And there was more, a deep orange glow from some great fire that raged unhindered.

  What do you make of that?’ William handed the spyglass to Peruzo as he pulled his horse up alongside him.

  Peruzo looked long and hard, and frowned. ‘A fire. But too big to be a campfire. It looks like . . .’ he paused.

  ‘Like a bonfire?’ William suggested.

  ‘Or several fires close together, Captain. A fire that is out of control.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Vittore called over as he galloped up the
line.

  ‘Are there any villages here, Lieutenant?’ William asked Vittore.

  Vittore shook his head. ‘Nothing on the map. but that doesn’t mean there couldn’t be any. This isn’t the most dependable map that I’ve steered by.’

  ‘If it isn’t a village . . .’ William said.

  ‘Then it could mean trouble,’ Vittore agreed.

  ‘There’s an oasis near here. And that fire and smoke is sure to attract attention. Trouble or not, we must investigate,’ William decided.

  Half an hour passed and the sky darkened further. The smoke was close enough now for an acrid reek to reach mouths and nostrils.

  As they crested one more dune they found the reason.

  Below them, more than fifty yards away, was a scene of chaos. What light remained as dusk fell lit a slaughter site of grim shadows and sinister stains. Several tall palms were alight or smouldering. The lake itself was dyed by some dark liquid, and bodies floated on its surface. A round it were more dark shapes, more bodies caught in rigor mortis, shrouded by twilight’s shadows. A couple of wagons had been overturned, another was on fire and the hot embers of the smouldering vehicle glowed like scattered orange eyes in the gloom.

  The company ranged itself along the dune like a macabre audience, its voices hushed, absorbing the horror below.

  ‘Any survivors?’ Peruzo hoped.

  ‘We must find out,’ William said as he edged forward.

  Peruzo reached over and pulled at his arm. ‘It could be a trap,’ he urged.

  ‘Vittore can stay here with half of the company. The other half rides down with me,’ William said decisively.

  The brothers divided themselves efficiently, every other man riding down the slope of the dune. Marco made to follow, but Peruzo moved his horse in front of him and shook his head. ‘Your place is here.’

  Marco made to protest, but a warning glance silenced him. He stayed reluctantly in place as Peruzo followed William down the steep bank.

  The first wagon’s contents lay spilt along the sand: elaborate and delicate rugs, and fine clothes fluttering in the evening breeze. Just beyond it lay the first body. William signalled for Brother Casper to dismount and the burly monk jumped to the floor, pushing the body over with his foot.

  ‘His throat’s torn out,’ Casper called back, and spat to the side.

  William nodded. ‘Who was he?’

  ‘A peasant, Captain.’ Casper walked onward, pausing to look down at each corpse he passed.

  Peruzo cast his eyes around, trying to make sense of it.

  ‘The wagons were loaded with fine cloth. It looks like a merchant’s caravan,’ William remarked.

  ‘So who would attack merchants?’ Peruzo said.

  ‘Robbers and thieves infest these desert roads,’ Vittore suggested. ‘I’ve seen this before, Captain. Out here there’s little law and order.’

  ‘Would thieves tear out the throats of their victims?’ William asked, and looked back at Vittore, reminding the lieutenant of his previous oversight.

  They continued to scour the campsite, noting the many bodies sprawled in death. They found one man who was not yet dead. In his last breath he spoke just a couple of words, but William did not understand them and was grieved by the knowledge that the fellow’s last words would never be understood, nor recounted again.

  At the centre of the camp, The monks separated and began an independent search. William dismounted, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He came to one of the tents, noting its once fine quality before it had been torn through and bloodied. Inside were baskets that had been knocked over, yet not ransacked. Most of the camp’s goods had been left in disorder, but little had been plundered.

  After some minutes of search and consultation, Brother Eric trudged over to brief William.

  ‘They are all dead,’ he announced. ‘We counted about twenty bodies.’

  ‘No evidence to say who these people were?’

  Brother Eric shrugged. ‘Most have been mutilated. In the darkness, they could be anybody, Captain.’

  ‘All mutilated?’

  The monk nodded.

  ‘Send Brother Filippo over, would you?’

  Brother Eric returned with their surgeon, who looked sorrowful. ‘There is nothing I can do for these people,’ he lamented.

  ‘I understand,’ William said. ‘But their wounds . . . Do you recognize them?’

  ‘Similar to the wound I found on Charles Greynell, Captain,’ Brother Filippo confided out of earshot of the others.

  ‘I thought as much,’ William said and expelled a long breath. He rubbed at his eyes and nodded. ‘Keep searching for survivors and post sentries on the surrounding dunes. Fires also. I want every yard of this oasis lit tonight.’

  Voices rose loudly from across the water and William looked through the gloom to the group of silhouettes.

  ‘A survivor?’ Brother Filippo asked hopefully.

  ‘Have Lieutenant Vittore join me,’ William said, and hurried to where the monks were gathered. Some of them were looking down at the figure of someone sitting in the spill of an opened bale of cloth. As William approached he recognized the man, with his bent back and hooked nose. His face and clothes were covered in loose sand, sticky with sweat and grime. He looked up suspiciously and somewhat guiltily, turning his head away as William stood before him.

  Vittore rode over and halted, looking down at the only survivor.

  ‘I know this man, Lieutenant,’ William confessed, but couldn’t place the man’s name for a moment, and then some spark of memory flashed, an image from Babel’s brothel.

  ‘Hammid, isn’t it?’ William said, surprising Vittore and causing Hammid to glance up. He knelt in front of the Arab. ‘Where is Thomas Richmond?’

  The Arab looked fleetingly at William, but then his eyes shifted, anywhere it seemed except William.

  ‘Mr Richmond where?’ William said again and spread his hands in question.

  Hammid got up labouredly from the bale and wiped the sand from his face. Then he turned and began stepping through the carnage, careful not to look down at the mutilated bodies about him, avoiding pools of blood as if by instinct.

  They came to a tent and William feared the worst, but then Hammid sidestepped this to head past one more body, The burning wagon, and on towards the sand dunes beyond. William and Vittore followed but hesitated, thinking the Arab was crazed, as they left the oasis and mounted the nearest dune to its crest, where the giant moon shone.

  Vittore gave William a weary look, but they followed Hammid over the crest and looked out across the desert. William frowned, not understanding why Hammid had brought them there, but then his eyes fixed on a figure in the shadows sitting bolt upright at the foot of the slope.

  They left Hammid and hurried down the dune, their boots gouging grooves in the sand. As they came within a few feet, the figure had not moved and William feared the worst. Was this Thomas Richmond, stone-dead?

  Taking a shivering breath, William rounded the motionless form and turned to see. Even in the dark he could make out Richmond’s now sunburnt skin, his black beard and broad shoulders. And his eyes. His opened eyes, staring into the distance.

  William breathed out with relief, and beamed at Vittore as if his lieutenant shared his joy . Vittore seemed unmoved, and perhaps for good reason. Despite his staring eyes, the man who sat before them failed to register either newcomer’s presence.

  ‘Mr Richmond?’ William said.

  There was no response.

  ‘Thomas Richmond?’ he repeated, waving a hand in front of his eyes.

  Again nothing.

  He knelt down in front of the Englishman. ‘Thomas?’ he said. ‘Do you remember me?’

  Slowly, The Englishman blinked and looked up at him. William noticed drops of blood on his cheek and brow. His shirt and jacket were splashed with dark red and William thought he was wounded.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Mr Richmond croaked almos
t inaudibly. He frowned and his eyes rolled up to see William. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘Babel’s,’ William replied.

  The Englishman grimaced as though thinking was painful. He narrowed his eyes, studying William’s face, and then he seemed overcome, gripping him by the arm. ‘Of course! Of course! William, wasn’t it?’

  William nodded, smiling softly. Thomas Richmond’s smile broadened and then he began to weep. ‘Thank you, sir. God thank you . . .’

  William held the Englishman’s arm, pleased by the gratitude, though still recognizing that danger lurked near. ‘What happened here?’ he asked urgently. ‘Your servant has not been helpful.’

  ‘Do not blame him,’ Thomas murmured. ‘He’s scared, that is all. He hid when the killing began.’

  ‘What happened to you?’

  Thomas looked up at William. ‘I did try to help my men . . . But they fell upon us. They murdered them all.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In the dead of night.’

  ‘You’ve been sat here all day?’

  Thomas nodded. ‘Hammid sat with me for a time, and then night fell, and he hid again. He thought they might come back. Whatever they are.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Shadows. Three shadows came out of the night. They slaughtered my servants.’

  ‘Are there any survivors apart from you and Hammid?’

  Thomas shrugged, his mind elsewhere.

  ‘Mr Richmond?’ William insisted.

  The Englishman’s attention revived. ‘There may have been a few left wounded, but they would be dead by now. I am no surgeon, sir.’

  William was thwarted. The merchant was in shock, but who could blame him? His whole entourage had been massacred. ‘We need to know more. If this is vampyres’ work, then where are they now?’ he said quietly to Vittore, who nodded. He turned back to Thomas and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Mr Richmond,’ he began, ‘does Hammid know anything about what happened?’

  ‘Why would Hammid know more than I?’ said Richmond, picking himself up from the sand. He brushed himself down automatically, despite the blood dried on his clothes. He stared up the hill to where Hammid was rocking on his knees, his eyes tight shut. ‘Poor Hammid knows nothing, I assure you.’