The Hoard of Mhorrer

by M. F. W. Curran

  He stayed, enraptured, until the woman turned and ceased her song. She stared at Marco, and then bowed, gesturing for him to come inside, but now he felt uncomfortable, troubled by a stranger’s readiness to welcome him inside her tent, and ashamed to have been caught spying on her. Marco smiled weakly, and shook his head. As the woman approached him, he bowed politely, turned and walked away.

  After this encounter, he made for the enclosures where the company’s horses were corralled. He found Brother Jericho’s charger and began grooming him, the horse attentive to his strokes. Here Marco felt at home; here there was some semblance of normality.

  Vittore’s black stallion was stamping the ground, clearly upset, and Marco wondered if the animal sensed that its master was dead. He walked over to quieten the horse, which tossed its head back and forth before bowing solemnly to Marco’s fingers. He went on stroking its mane until he heard another sound, of stamping feet and quick explosive breaths, coming from behind the enclosure. He recognized that sound.

  Marco patted the stallion’s flank to assure him he wasn’t going too far and rounded the enclosure to the point where the rear was surrounded by supply tents. Between the space of the tents and the fences was a gap several yards wide. In that gap was the source of what he’d heard: someone dressed head to toe in black, swinging a sword about them, advancing and retreating. The blade was short and narrow; it shone as it turned in the wielder’s expert hands.

  Watching the warrior were four young women, chattering to each other with words that Marco did not understand. They seemed distracted, not concentrating on the swordplay in front of them, and Marco found it odd they were not mesmerized as he was, by the blur and flash of steel cutting the air. He did not realize that he’d strayed from the shadows in the enclosure and was just a stride or two from the display.

  One of the girls stopped speaking and pointed in alarm.

  It was enough to halt the warrior. He lowered his sword and half-turned to Marco. Behind the veil, his eyes were narrow, elegant and young, and Marco was reminded of Marresca for a moment. Around his head was a black scarf that contained his hair and hid his nose, cheeks and lips. As he turned fully to Marco, the warrior loosened this head-dress and Marco watched as a mane of long black hair cascaded from it down to the shoulders. The warrior shook the last strands of hair and pulled the scarf completely away, to stare at Marco.

  Marco was stunned. It was a woman who stood before him; a woman who had wielded the sword so gracefully that it transfixed him. He knew that women could fight (Aunt Adriana for one), but to see it done so . . .

  ‘Beautifully,’ he murmured, surprising himself by speaking his feelings aloud.

  The girls listened and then fell about laughing, some saying words that were clearly just mocking him.

  The woman walked over to Marco. She was a little taller than him and perhaps just a little older. She had deep brown eyes and flawless brown skin. While Marco had been gripped by her swordplay, he was now taken by her beauty, His eyes straying down from her face to her shoulders, the curve of her breasts, down to her waist.

  The woman said something to Marco and began to smile. It was not so scornful as her friends, but deferential and perhaps inquisitive. She repeated herself again, but he did not understand.

  Then she pointed at Marco and shrugged, opening a hand to him.

  Marco looked down at it, speechless, transfixed, not knowing what he should do.

  One of the girls standing nearby started shouting, and the woman turned at the sound of feet approaching. She looked to Marco and shook her head, pointing to the horses. Then she gave him a gentle push, urging him to leave, which he did eventually just before the first of Sheikh Fahd’s bodyguards appeared.

  He hid behind the nearest fence post and watched as the thickset man who had laughed at him in his tent raised his voice to the female warrior. The exchange was heated and the women were led away by other guards. Finally the female warrior lowered her head, petulantly wrenching herself from the restraints of a guard before marching away under the watchful eyes of Marco’s morning visitor.

  Marco wasn’t sure what had just happened, nor who this female warrior was. Throughout the raised voices, the anger and reprimand, there was only one word he remembered; a word he believe d was a name. Perhaps even the name of the woman in black.

  Jamillah.

  IV

  Hammid sipped from the water-skin, eager for more before Thomas snatched it away. He slumped in defeat in the saddle, as sweat trickled down his temple.

  They had ridden for much of the day following the never-ending tracks that did not break for rest. Just like themselves, the militia had ridden all night.

  ‘At least the hoof prints are still fresh,’ Thomas said, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Maybe they’re not far away.’

  William nodded wearily, but he did not truly believe they were any closer to the army. The desert surrounded them and it seemed the whole world had turned to sand.

  Hammid cupped his hand over his eyes and then began to gabble something, at first in an undertone, then louder, standing up in his saddle.

  ‘What is it?’ William asked as the Englishman pulled his horse about. Thomas angled to their left down the steep side of a dune and galloped up the slope of the next one, eyes trained to where Hammid was pointing. William followed at a canter. At the top of the ridge, Thomas gestured to a shape in the sky.

  ‘See?’ he shouted. ‘A bird, Captain! We must be near a farm or a village . . .’

  ‘Or an oasis?’ William said eagerly.

  They rode to the peak of the next dune, and there William almost sobbed with relief. The bird had indeed flown from an oasis. It lay a few miles distant in the dip between several giant dunes and surrounded by large boulders. Among them, along the shore of the water, a body of men had made camp.

  Soldiers.

  ‘The militia?’ Thomas ventured.

  William pulled out his spyglass and stilled his breathing as he focused on the encampment, hoping for some sign that these were indeed the militia they were tracking. As he focused on sentries dressed in dusty robes and armed with rifles and swords, he found nothing. He swept the site and still there was nothing, just a camp of militiamen. If his monks were being held prisoner there, there was no sign of them.

  He turned to Thomas. ‘I can’t see them.’

  ‘It will be night soon. We should search the camp now,’ Thomas suggested, restless at the thought of waiting any further.

  Ignoring the advice, William lifted the spyglass again and looked harder, studying every horse, every tent, even the packs and bundles half-hidden in the shade of boulders. Then he went to the guards, studying their clothes, their faces, their . . .

  ‘Rifles,’ William said and a smile peeled across his lips.

  ‘Rifles?’ Thomas said.

  Would the militia have access to firearms like a Baker rifle?’ he said, more to himself than to Thomas.

  The Englishman stroked his chin. ‘Militia are usually poorly armed. How should I put it? Cannon fodder.’ Thomas was curt but objective.

  William was pleased. The militia had taken great pains to hide the presence of the brothers, yet in their greed they had plundered their weapons, and this was the signal he needed. ‘They are here’ he said as he snapped the spyglass shut.

  V

  A gully curved from behind one arm of the dune in the direction of the oasis. William and Thomas dismounted and led their horses down to it. Here, out of sight of the camp, they left Hammid, fearing that so devoted a coward would only give them away. The oasis was ringed by rocky outcrops which provided adequate cover at the perimeter, but the nearer approach was in the open. They tethered the horses in the shade of some boulders, and made their way on foot to the edge of the oasis. Here they hid in some shade and waited.

  Thomas looked up into the brilliant sky, squinting as the sun moved overhead to burn the grains of sand barely inches from the tips of their boots. ‘I admire your tena
city,’ he whispered.

  William made no reply, his mind set on other things.

  ‘Coming here to rescue your men – it is admirable,’ The Englishman continued. He looked down at the empty water-skin that lay between them. They had given Hammid the half-full skin. William planned to fill the empty one at the oasis.

  ‘Do you think Hammid will run?’ William asked.

  Thomas smiled. ‘Hammid is a coward. It’s a fact we both recognize. But he will stay as I ordered.’

  ‘You sound quite sure of someone you can’t trust.’

  ‘Oh I trust him, Captain,’ Thomas said confidently. ‘I trust his greed. The prospect of reward will keep him loyal.’

  ‘Then why leave him out there?’ William said, gesturing back to the dunes behind them.

  ‘Because he screams like a girl whenever there’s danger, Captain. A scream that can travel for miles.’ Thomas’s chuckle was an empty sound that gave William no comfort.

  ‘Cold?’ Thomas said as he watched William chafing his arms.

  ‘It’s cooler in the shade, and I’m tired.’

  ‘You should sleep,’ Thomas suggested. ‘You’re no good to your men if you need rest. I can keep watch.’

  ‘Well, if you insist,’ William said gratefully, reaching to take the empty skin of water. ‘Maybe after I get this filled.’ He winked at the English merchant and left their hiding place behind the rock, creeping around the other side and down a narrow track that wound between small rocks and some stunted bushes.

  Thomas peeked around the corner with a mixture of delight and fascination as he watched the captain slip like a cobra between two points where sentries had been posted. They didn’t see his shadow sneak by rock and sand, and then Thomas too lost sight of him.

  William returned nearly an hour later, His clothes spilling sand, his forehead dripping with sweat. He was smiling broadly and clutching a full skin of water.

  ‘I wouldn’t have believed it,’ Thomas said and took the bloated skin from his hands. ‘I was beginning to feel anxious.’

  ‘It was no easy task; the camp is well fortified. I got as close as the horses. While they were led to water, I sneaked in,’ William said. He breathed out and then relaxed.

  ‘So you filled our skin while the horses drank?’

  William shook his head. ‘Look at it,’ he said.

  Thomas looked down at the skin, and then looked closer. ‘This is not ours,’ he said finally.

  ‘I traded our empty skin for a full one,’ William said, satisfied. ‘They will think nothing of it. Perhaps think that one of their men was too lazy to refill it, but they won’t know I’ve been inside their camp.’

  ‘What else did you find?’

  ‘They have around one hundred and fifty men. Most are in tents, but there are about two dozen sentries, all armed. I think the brothers are at the far side. I saw some cages there with men shut inside.

  ‘Their weapons are being stored in the centre of the camp, though they’ve pillaged what they could.’ William chuckled. Thomas could not see the funny side. William held up a hand to explain. ‘Our weapons are beyond them, Thomas. I saw one fellow stab himself in the thumb with a throwing star.’

  ‘Throwing star?’ Thomas asked, bewildered.

  ‘One of our more specialized weapons.’

  The Englishman sighed. ‘You really are the strangest monks I’ve ever come across.’ He passed the water back to William, who declined, and Thomas spoke again. ‘It may be none of my business, Captain, but what exactly is your mission here?’

  William glanced at him. ‘I’m sorry, I cannot say. Only that should we succeed tonight, I am to lead these men into the heart of the Sinai with Sheikh Fahd.’

  ‘Are you treasure-hunters, Captain?’

  ‘Treasure-hunters of a sort.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Thomas applauded.

  William leaned back against a rock while he planned the brothers’ rescue. Then the short desert evening came, and he thought on other things, not least his still unfinished letter home. He thought about Adriana, about Marco, stranded at the Bedouin camp, and finally tailed away. His eyes closed while the sun fled the desert and the cold of night closed in.

  VI

  William woke with the feeling that hands were running over his body. He scuttled backwards suddenly, his spine colliding with the rock behind and jolting his eyes wide open.

  ‘Ah . . . Awake, Captain?’ Thomas grinned, sitting opposite. A sliver of moon shone above. ‘Bad dreams?’

  William instinctively moved his own hand down his jacket to his hips. He nodded, still in a daze.

  ‘I would have woken you myself Thomas began. ‘You slept for a long time’

  ‘Then you should have woken me,’ William reproached, his throat desiccated. He coughed, and ran his tongue around his dry lips, tasting salt and sand.

  Thomas passed him the skin of water. It was half-empty already, the Englishman having indulged his thirst. William took a long gulp and then splashed a little on his face. Why conserve water when he needed all of his resources?

  William cricked his neck and rubbed at his moistened face as the dregs of his dream dissolved. He rolled onto his knees and stood up to peer around the edge of their hiding place. In the distance the guards were moving.

  ‘They’re changing’ he murmured. ‘This is the night watch.’

  ‘That will make it harder to sneak in, will it not?’ Richmond asked.

  William nodded. ‘But the chink in their armour remains.’

  Thomas’s silence was a question.

  Where I managed to crawl earlier on ... If I can get to the horses, then I can divert their attentions elsewhere,’ William said.

  ‘And that is when I try for the cages you spoke of?’

  William turned about. ‘No. You will stay here,’ he said.

  ‘Captain Saxon! I believe you are asking me to . . .’ Thomas said angrily .

  ‘I’m asking you to keep your head down. I might need you if I manage to get back here,’ William told him. ‘But if I am caught, I will surely be executed, possibly tortured. You are a civilian, Mr Richmond. I cannot lead you into trouble. You will stay here, sir, until I return.’

  ‘In the night?’

  ‘In the night,’ William confirmed.

  ‘Do not be long, Captain. I still remember what dangers the night holds,’ Thomas told him as William loosened his jacket and pulled it away, leaving only his shirt. He tied his sword to his back.

  ‘I won’t be,’ he replied, and slipped away into the encroaching shadows.

  William crawled on his elbows along the darker edge of that narrow track between the rocks and sand. Where the sand fell away to the foot of a supine boulder, he slid down the slope until his left foot was flat against the rock, and crept further towards the oasis, invisible to the sentries above him. Their outlines glowed from the campfires beyond and William noticed how casual they looked – alert, yes, but not expecting trouble.

  They’re complacent, he thought. They could afford to be. Their quarry were under armed guard now, so what did they have to worry about? William would make them pay for their smugness. He was not about to slit their throats – he was no random assassin – but should he succeed in freeing his men, these sentries would almost certainly incur the wrath of Muhammad Ali for letting them escape.

  At the edge of the rock, he hunkered down and saw the other boulder a few yards away. Clenching his teeth, he breathed in and dashed towards it, soundless as he got to his target and slid quickly to the ground, into a shallow hollow and then past it.

  Here lay a patch of tall grass, thick and green at the roots but dried at the tips. It was coarse, and while William used it to screen him he made sure not to disturb it. At the edge of the grass was a short track of dirt and then another patch of grass that led down to the water. He dashed across it and lay flat again, keeping his head below the level of the lowest stalk of grass. There he waited, breathing quietly as he listened to the sounds of
the camp. There was joviality, sounds of laughing and singing.

  William heard movement close by. He crawled back into the grass and held his breath as he spied a militiaman looking about where he’d just been. For a moment he thought he might have been discovered, but the Arab only pulled aside his baggy robes to urinate into the grass. William did not move, and could only pray that the fellow did not piss on him. The stench made him grimace, but he was grinning as the Arab walked away. William watched him leave, and breathed more deeply.

  Praying that his luck held, he turned about and crept through the tall grass until he arrived at the lake’s edge. The water rippled under the evening breeze, stretching some fifty yards to the heart of the camp. At the far side, by the edge, under a stand of palm trees, was the Order’s wagon of weapons, the dwarf-cannon still perched upon it, half covered by a blanket.

  To skirt around the lake would take him past several tents of militia, the horses, and four sentries who were standing around just chatting. William narrowed his eyes. Turning to the sky he saw the moon shining down towards the camp. From the opposite side, its reflection would highlight each ripple. There was some movement on the lake, but not enough. He must wait for a stray cloud to cover the moon and turn the water black.

  A silent wait, and finally a cloud. He seized his chance and crawled to the water’s edge. Like a hunting crocodile, he eased into the liquid. The chill made him shiver, but he lowered his body into it up to the chin.

  Swimming out from the shore with slow easy strokes, he looked around and no one was watching. William took a deep breath and submerged completely, leaving only an eddy in the water.

  VII

  Thomas sat and waited. He could do little else, even though it was clear to him that if Captain Saxon failed, then so did he.

  There was a sound of movement nearby and Thomas shuffled further into the shadows, making himself as small as he could so that a passer-by would simply see darkness and nothing more.