The Hoard of Mhorrer

by M. F. W. Curran

  ‘Dawud believes so,’ the sheikh replied.

  William blew down on the coffee again and thought about the story. ‘So Dawud lived?’ he said, surprised that anyone could survive in the desert alone.

  ‘Barely,’ Sheikh Fahd replied. ‘A passing caravan of foreigners from St Catherine discovered him. He was almost blind with thirst when they found him.’

  ‘He sounds like a lucky man,’ William remarked.

  ‘We both were, Mr Saxon,’ Sheikh Fahd insisted. ‘The leader of the expedition agreed to search for survivors of the massacre. When this man arrived at the valley he was able to retrieve my brother’s body, and my family have been in his debt ever since.’ The sheikh paused, his expression distant for a moment or two. William tested the coffee again, and content that it would not burn the roof of his mouth, he drank thirstily. Sheikh Fahd smiled and offered the jug again.

  William looked apologetic but crossed over to refill his cup. ‘Thank you,’ he said and sat down again.

  ‘The leader of that expedition was Charles Greynell,’ the sheikh said as William made himself comfortable.

  William almost choked on his coffee. ‘Greynell?’ he gasped and lowered the cup. ‘Truly? He found them?’

  Sheikh Fahd nodded, pleased by the reaction.

  ‘But what was he doing there?’ William asked impatiently. ‘How did he come across Dawud?’

  ‘I never asked him, Mr Saxon,’ The sheikh admitted. ‘I merely believed it was providence he was there at all.’

  William looked struck, dazed even. ‘And you say he was travelling from St Catherine?’

  ‘That is what he told me.’

  ‘And he returned here, bringing Dawud and your brother with him?’ William guessed. Again the sheikh nodded. ‘So that is why Charles had the pendant.’

  ‘We would have given him much more, but he refused,’ Sheikh Fahd replied. ‘He is a good man. And a friend of the Ayaida.’

  William nodded solemnly and rested the coffee before him.

  ‘So tell me, Captain, how is it that you know Charles?’ the sheikh asked.

  William looked up from the cup. He knew this moment would come. He could only be truthful. ‘I don’t know him, sir,’ he confessed. ‘I didn’t have a chance to.’

  ‘Explain,’ Sheikh Fahd demanded.

  ‘Sir, I’m sorry to tell you this, but Charles Greynell is dead.’

  The sheikh stared at William, the words sinking in slowly at first, but once past that wall of incomprehension, the revelation was rapid. Sheikh Fahd looked devastated. ‘Dead?’

  William nodded.

  ‘How?’ the sheikh asked.

  ‘Murdered, sir,’ William replied. ‘Murdered by the same people who hunt us now.’

  ‘The militia?’

  ‘No. Someone else,’ William told him. ‘You were right to think that I wasn’t a merchant. I am someone quite different. I really am a soldier. And Charles Greynell was my contact in Rashid. But our enemies got to Charles first. He did not survive.’

  The sheikh nodded, though William doubted he understood everything he was saying.

  ‘What is your real name?’ the sheikh asked.

  ‘William Saxon is my real name, sir,’ he replied. ‘Though I am a captain.’

  ‘Captain Saxon,’ the sheikh said and seemed pleased with the title.

  William shuffled closer. ‘Sir . . . Charles was meant to lead me to a place deep in the Sinai, and I wondered if you have ever heard of the term “Mhorrer’s Hoard”?’

  The sheikh shook his head. William sighed.

  ‘Is it a treasure?’ the sheikh asked.

  ‘No sir, it is not,’ William replied. ‘I would call it a curse.’ His mind was busy.

  ‘Who killed Charles, Captain Saxon?’ the sheikh asked.

  ‘Creatures of greed and darkness, sir,’ William replied cryptic-ally. ‘They are called vampyres, and I hope you will never have to meet one. They are responsible for the deaths of Charles, two of my men, not to mention many innocent people in Rashid and in an oasis many miles from here.’

  ‘They sound dangerous,’ the sheikh replied. ‘Like the ghosts that murdered my brother.’

  William’s eyes widened. ‘Yes. That’s right. Just like vampyres,’ he said eagerly. ‘These ghosts of yours, what can you tell me about them?’

  ‘I know very little. Only rumour. The legends say ghosts steal the souls of men and leave their corpses to rot in the mountain passes. They attack who they wish. Men, women, anyone. Other than that, I have nothing more to tell.’ The sheikh watched William’s expression deflate. ‘You wish for more?’

  ‘Is there more?’ William replied hopefully.

  ‘There may be,’ the sheikh said and clapped his hands loudly. ‘Hisham!’

  At once the broad bodyguard entered and bowed before his sheikh. Words passed between them, the bodyguard left quickly, and Sheikh Fahd settled back.

  ‘Dawud will know more,’ Sheikh Fahd remarked. ‘He was near them when my brother was murdered.’

  ‘What is the name of the place where your brother died?’ William asked as they waited for Dawud to appear.

  ‘It has many names in Arabic and Egyptian, yet in English you would call it “the Valley of Fire”.’

  William heard the name and then something registered. The name began to unlock something, clues, doors, words written in a letter . . .

  ‘Is there something wrong, Captain?’ Sheikh Fahd remarked.

  William found himself beaming as though something wonderful had just occurred. ‘I’m not sure,’ he replied distantly. ‘It might be nothing. Or it could be the answer to a riddle . . . possibly the greatest riddle of all.’

  The young servant known as Dawud was urged into the tent, flanked by two of Sheikh Fahd’s guards. The Bedouin bowed to his sheikh but gave William an uneasy look.

  Sheikh Fahd asked a few questions and Dawud answered, his speech spluttered and now and then stumbling as though he had plenty to say but was reluctant to speak it.

  Presently after several exchanges, Sheikh Fahd addressed William. ‘Ask away, Captain. He is nervous and still afraid, but he will speak.’

  Whether it was the effects of the coffee swirling inside him or the lightning strike of sudden revelation, William felt eager, hungry for what only Dawud could tell him. ‘What can he tell me about these ghosts?’ he said forcefully, staring at the wretched young survivor.

  The sheikh asked and Dawud rocked on the balls of his feet, putting his hands together, pleadingly reverent.

  ‘They we re dressed like the sky. They wo re strange armour about their bodies and across their arms. And they had no faces to speak of, just one eye . . .’

  William frowned. ‘A Cyclops?’

  Sheikh Fahd agreed. ‘Yes. Like the legends. He says they had a single eye, painted with fire.’

  William balled his hands, searching for the relevance. The references to fire in Charles Greynell’s letter . . . The Valley of Fire . . . The ghosts with a single eye of . . .

  ‘A riddle of fire,’ he muttered. ‘So it is true.’

  ‘Captain?’ Sheikh Fahd said, but William was lost in thought. Sheikh Fahd growled under his breath and sent Dawud away.

  William got to his feet and began pacing the tent.

  ‘Captain Saxon, what importance is this to you?’ Sheikh Fahd demanded.

  William thought for a moment, considering the consequences, yet the temptation that this Valley of Fire could be the domain of the Rassis was so great that he could not refrain. He drew the letter from his jacket and held it out to the sheikh.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘It is Charles Greynell’s last letter.’

  Sheikh Fahd opened it and read, frowning with concentration. While William waited he brooded on the turn of events. Was the Hoard truly so close to them now? Might the mission prove a success? It felt at least possible, and he had to control his emotions as he waited for the sheikh to finish reading.

  Sheikh Fahd l
owered the letter and looked solemn again. ‘A mystery,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed a “riddle”,’ William said. ‘A “riddle of fire”, no less.’

  Sheikh Fahd did not reply, but stared at William with further questions. William had already told the sheikh too much, yet he could see a friend in the making. He remembered Kieran’s parting words, their wisdom confirming his resolve: ‘In our absence, you should find allies where you can . . .’

  ‘Sir, I believe your brother was not murdered by ghosts,’ William said plainly. His host must know the truth.

  The Bedouin looked back patiently, still holding the letter. ‘Then by whom?’ he demanded.

  William took his time to reply, hoping to make his suspicions sound credible. ‘I believe he was murdered by a sect called the Rassis Cult. The Rassis are not ghosts, but men like you and me.’

  ‘If they are flesh and blood, then they can be killed,’ Sheikh Fahd said. Clearly the notion appealed to him.

  ‘I believe so,’ William replied. ‘But I might add, this is not your fight, Sheikh Fahd, but my mission.’

  ‘For honour, Captain Saxon, I believe it is my fight,’ Sheikh Fahd replied. ‘I wish to add revenge to my song.’

  ‘Your song?’

  ‘When someone of great prominence dies in my tribe, a song is written about their death,’ Sheikh Fahd said. ‘If you stay, I will have someone sing it to you. My own voice does not carry a melody, but there are some in my tribe whose voices would shame the greatest of songbirds.’

  ‘I would be honoured to hear it, Sheikh Fahd,’ William replied.

  ‘But the song is incomplete, Captain Saxon,’ Sheikh Fahd said and sighed. He stared at his guest so searchingly that William wondered what he was seeing.

  ‘The reason I did not let you perish in the desert was that Charles promised to send me a weapon,’ Sheikh Fahd said at last. ‘A weapon of vengeance to strike down my brother’s murderers. And I prayed to Allah that such a weapon would come.’ He walked over and placed his broad hand firmly on William’s shoulder.

  William looked up at the sheikh. ‘A weapon?’

  ‘You, Captain Saxon. And your men,’ the sheikh explained. ‘And now you are here, I will be revenged on these ghosts.’

  IV

  Marco woke with a start to the sound of voices. When he emerged from the covers he found two figures standing at the entrance to the tent, their outlines blurred by shadow and camp-fire. He slowly pulled the blanket back over him and listened.

  ‘I’ve elected to move our camp away from the Ayaida’ said a whispered voice.

  ‘The men aren’t at their best. If the vampyre were to attack now . . . Wouldn’t the Ayaida offer us the protection we need?’ said the other.

  ‘Camping away from the Ayaida is a condition of having our rifles returned to us. Other than Thomas and Vittore, no one in the company has the faintest understanding of these people. A diplomatic incident between two armed parties is bound to end in tragedy.

  ‘Besides, camping at the ridge will provide a better vantage point. It looks out across the whole valley’

  What about Marco? He should camp with the brothers if you want him to learn anything.’

  ‘Not now,’ came the reply. ‘He is not ready to fight. He might do something rash and then we’ll all suffer because of it.’

  ‘If you may permit me, Captain, you should give him more credit.’

  ‘Peruzo, he is my responsibility.’

  Marco realized he knew these voices.

  ‘I am still surprised the sheikh ceded to such a request, Captain,’ Peruzo said. ‘Didn’t he ask why?’

  William sounded wary. ‘He is no longer suspicious. We’re allies now .’

  ‘Allies?’ Peruzo sounded alarmed. ‘But how? What have you told them?’

  William stepped closer and Marco strained to hear.

  ‘Do you trust me?’

  ‘Of course. You are my captain.’

  ‘How about as a friend?’

  ‘You have done right by me ever since I’ve known you, William.’

  ‘Then trust me now, my friend. I take all responsibility for breaking the charter of the Secretariat. We need the sheikh’s help. With it, we could achieve our mission. Without it, I fear we have already failed.’

  ‘If you bring these people into our war, the Papacy will surely banish you.’

  ‘That is my burden, Peruzo. but do you really think they would cast me aside if I brought them the Hoard of Mhorrer?’

  There was something else said, something that Marco wasn’t able to hear. He leant forward and knocked over his uncle’s kit, which clattered to the ground.

  ‘Marco,’ William said. ‘You’ve been listening?’

  Marco rolled over and sat upright. ‘What is happening?’

  ‘Go back to sleep.’

  ‘But Uncle!’

  William said something under his breath to Peruzo, who slipped off into the night. Now William came to Marco, stepping over Thomas, who was fast asleep. He sat down near his nephew, and yawned. ‘I’ve moved the company up the ridge above the valley,’ he whispered, and stretched his arms.

  ‘Should I go as well?’ Marco asked as he tried to get up.

  William held up his hand. ‘No. You’ll be staying here.’

  ‘But I should be with the brothers, shouldn’t I?’ Marco protested.

  ‘You should stay with me,’ William snapped, feeling tired. ‘You are my responsibility, not the Order’s. And certainly not Peruzo’s, nor Vittore’s.’

  Marco looked crestfallen. ‘You don’t want me here.’

  ‘I want you safe,’ William insisted. ‘If Sheikh Fahd turns out to be an ally, then I intend to leave you here while we go further into the Sinai.’

  Marco felt his face flush red, and his eyes burned with anger. ‘No!’ he said. ‘I’m coming with you!’

  ‘Marco . . .’ William groaned.

  Thomas snorted, stirred and muttered something unintelligible.

  William glanced over his shoulder and shook his head.

  ‘You promised!’ Marco whispered as loud as he could, lest he wake up the English merchant.

  ‘I did no such thing,’ William growled at him. ‘This mission has become more dangerous than I could have imagined. This is not a game, Marco.’

  Marco stared at him, tears stinging his eyes. ‘I will go where you go.’

  William shook his head. ‘No, Marco, you will not. And should you try, I will have you tied up here. Is that what you want?’

  Marco rolled over, pulling his sheets over him. He sniffed and wiped the tears from his eyes, a shamed that he should be crying, but angry about being betrayed.

  ‘Marco,’ William said, but the boy’s icy silence spoke enough.

  William spent the next half-hour staring at Marco, watching him slowly fall asleep, hearing Thomas’s muttering behind him, yet feeling no comfort. His head was a mess of possibilities and considerations. Fatigued though he was, he could not hope to sleep. Yet after an hour, weariness had taken its toll and William curled up in the corner, his eyes closing for whatever rest was afforded him.

  V

  It took time to move the wagons and horses up the ridge. Their weapons were returned eventually, but not all at once. The Bedouin had taken a shine to the Baker rifles and handed them over reluctantly, but hand them over they did.

  Peruzo was still suspicious of their hosts, but for the next hour he concerned himself with setting up camp a quarter of a mile away from the Ayaida. It was hard going in the dark and the monks seemed weary. Yet, despite their fatigue, and despite lapses in concentration, the company seemed in good spirits. Tomorrow they would rest and replenish.

  Vittore posted Brother Angelo for first watch. The young monk grumbled, but obeyed and trudged to the ledge of rock that looked out over both the valley and the dunes to the west. He checked his rifle and squatted down against the rocks, wrapping his arms around him against the cold.

  There were other sentries
around the camp, other pairs of eyes that would be watching for vampyre attacks. Angelo would not be the only one. Perhaps that was why the young monk found himself dozing off, lulled into security by the respite after the preceding days. After fighting to stay awake, he succumbed to the night and slumped over his rifle, slipping into a shallow sleep.

  Angelo woke with a start. Brother Tore had shouted, hadn’t he? Wasn’t that his voice? His cry? There were more sounds in the dark and Angelo struggled to the edge of the outcrop. Rubbing his blurred eyes, he peered out into the night. Below him the darkness seemed to swarm with movement.

  ‘Vampyres!’ He loaded his rifle, drowsiness making his hands clumsy. When it was finally loaded, he raised the rifle and pointed it towards the shadows. And then the dark separated and several men rushed towards him.

  They were not vampyres, though. They were Arabs.

  Hesitating, Angelo wasn’t sure whether to fire or not. Lieutenant Peruzo’s orders were to shoot only at vampyres. And definitely not Arabs.

  The hesitation cost him dear. After he lowered his rifle, more men appeared on the ledge. Silently they scrambled up to Brother Angelo and wrestled him to the floor. Angelo kicked out, knocking two or three away, but the weight of their numbers had him pinned down. Then they began to beat him. Blood filled his mouth and pain filled his head with each kick and punch.

  There was a sudden loud bang and one of the Arabs on top of Angelo whirled away in a spray of blood. The others fell away from the monk, retreating as another shot ripped through the air.

  ‘Get off him, you savages!’ Lieutenant Vittore shouted.

  Angelo pushed himself up, but his head was spinning and the rusty taste of his own blood filled his mouth.

  ‘Stay down!’ the lieutenant ordered as he reloaded his rifle. He looked like a hero, broad-shouldered and fierce. He had a determination that was unequalled amongst the brothers.

  He would save them.

  ‘When I tell you, you must . . .’ Vittore ordered but his instruction was cut short. There was a series of sudden reports, like firecrackers exploding around them. Angelo watched Lieutenant Vittore twitch horrifically, pulled in every direction as a fusillade of bullets tore through his body. The lieutenant staggered back for a moment, bleeding profusely, before falling to the ground.