‘Hiding are we?’ came a voice.
Thomas froze. He closed his eyes and cursed . . .
.. . And then the curse became a laugh as he straightened up. ‘You took your time getting here,’ Thomas said as a figure emerged into the moonlight. He was quite tall, dressed in black with long red hair. His skin was pale and deathly, but his expression was grimly good-humoured.
‘Where is he?’ Baron Horia asked casually.
‘He has gone to free his men,’ Thomas replied.
‘And you didn’t think it wise to follow him?’
‘He asked me not to,’ Thomas replied derisively.
Baron Horia stroked back his red mane and walked out to the edge of the rocks, planting a heeled boot on the nearest one to stare out into the night and the oasis beyond, lit by many glowing fires.
‘He will fail, won’t he?’ Thomas said.
Baron Horia shrugged. ‘He is Captain William Saxon, a man of infinite surprises. There have been many times when the Count thought he might fail, yet still he survives, while many of my brethren have perished.’ The vampyre returned to Thomas and his smile twisted. ‘This time, we want him to succeed’
‘And if he does, the plan continues?’
‘It does,’ Baron Horia replied. ‘This man and his rabble are close to discovering the Hoard of Mhorrer, and we must let him achieve that aim. Only when the Rassis Cult is destroyed will I act.’
Thomas nodded his understanding, only to pause and frown as though there was something neither had considered. ‘Why would he succeed where you failed?’ he dared to ask.
Baron Horia glared. ‘Because they are prepared,’ he snarled.
‘But you are vampyre . . .’
Baron Horia seized Thomas by the throat and lifted him a foot from the ground. ‘And we were not ready!’ he growled. ‘When we assaulted the Valley of Fire, the Rassis already knew we were coming. Of my coven of nine, two were shot from the air as we approached and their heads cleaved by those who hid below. Three more were destroyed when we attacked the summit. There wasn’t even time to loose a daemon upon them. Dahlquist tried and perished doing so, and I almost lost a hand retrieving the Scarimadaen. It was a disaster.’ Baron Horia found he was choking Thomas and he relaxed his grip, letting the Englishman fall to his knees and claw for breath.
‘You doubt me, I see. But would you like me to show you how efficient I can be?’ Baron Horia warned his gasping acolyte. ‘As I did with Charles Greynell? He was in agony for quite some time, you know.’
‘Not . . . necessary . . .’ Thomas bowed his head.
The vampyre strolled a few steps and then stopped. ‘Only Ileana, Racinet and I remain, Thomas Richmond. Alone we cannot defeat the Rassis. But with Saxon and his monks, not to mention the savages helping him, we may yet succeed.’
‘Have you seen these monks of the Order, my Baron?’ Thomas said behind awkward breaths. ‘They are a shadow of an army. Gaunt and thin. They haven’t had a decent meal in days. They could hardly defeat you, let alone these Rassis you speak of.’
‘They may seem weak on the surface; their skin may be pale, their bodies slender, but their wits are sharp, and they are all muscle and sinew.’ Horia licked his white lips and smiled. ‘They are much stronger than you know. And besides, I have no choice. If Saxon does not defeat the Rassis, then no one will.’
‘And if he does succeed?’ Thomas said, rubbing his bruised neck.
‘If he does, Thomas, then we will ambush the survivors and take the Hoard for ourselves, Baron Horia vowed. ‘Something I should have planned all along. I was foolish to think we could defeat the Rassis by ourselves. My master had failed to do so on a number of occasions. Even those winged menaces the Dar’uka have not succeeded. Does that not tell you enough?’
‘Are the Rassis that powerful?’ Thomas asked.
Baron Horia turned to the Englishman, the surface of his yellow eyes seething with light. ‘Oh yes, Mr Richmond. They are the stuff of human nightmares.’
VIII
William was alone in the black abyss. Occasionally his feet would kick against the bed of the lake, but the sensation was of tumbling and then floating, with nothing but darkness about him. Apart from the occasional sandbank, the water of the oasis was deeper than he had expected. He strove to swim further, but after a few yards his hands only clawed at the gloom and the cold was constricting his chest. He lifted himself and swam shallow, careful not to leave strong ripples on the surface.
Above him in the silence was nothing. It was night up there, and only the occasional flicker to either side reminded him he was swimming between the campfires by the lake’s edge.
William paused for a moment to breathe and take note of his surroundings, before he submerged once again.
He swam towards the far bank where the glow of the fires was weakest and shadow prevailed. There was no one watching the lake; the sentries he spied were talking amongst themselves, unsuspecting. He reached the sandy shore, his knees resting in the silt. It sank as he put his weight upon it, and as he knelt the water rose up to his chin again.
On either side were patches of tall grass with tents nearby. To his right two guards stood by a fire. They were laughing and joking, their gestures grand and playful, but something in their voices told William they were describing something malicious. One man made jabbing movements, then punched and kicked out as if at a target on the ground.
William felt suddenly desperate as it dawned on him that they were describing the torture of his own men. He felt his top lip curl angrily and his body flushed with fury.
Another sound caught his attention: footfalls directly ahead. In front, only yards away, was the wagon of weapons and munitions. William had first planned a diversion by stampeding the horses, but seeing the cannon again had provided a better idea.
The footfalls he had heard came from another guard who was singing a strange off-key song while he paced around the wagon. This man was in his way.
William eased out of the water and crawled up the bank, flattening himself against the sand. He waited for the sentry to turn and retrace his steps, before he raced quickly across the tall grass to the side of the wagon. Placing his fingers on its timber sides, he was comforted to touch it again, so essential to their mission. If his suspicions of the Rassis were correct, he would need all the weapons they could lay their hands on, but could he possibly liberate their cannon, and would it be worth the risk?
No horses stood nearby, and it would take some minutes to hitch one to the wagon – minutes they would not have in the heat of the rescue. The choice was clear: the cannon or the men.
It was no choice at all.
He waited until the sentry turned about and walked to the left. High above, the cloud crept away from the moon and lit the oasis with silver. It caught William out in the open. Cursing his carelessness, he fell to his knees and rolled beneath the wagon. He waited for a call of alarm, but nothing broke the jocular chatter and the sound of insects clicking in the night.
William crawled to the rear of the carriage. The sentry was marching to the front, his pace regular and monotonous. William rose to his feet and flattened himself against the back of the carriage. He listened to the sound of steady footsteps, pulled out his sword and waited.
When the sentry appeared, William moved close and swung his sword down, the butt connecting hard with the man’s head. William caught him as he fell, then rolled him under the wagon and out of sight before taking his weapon, a poorly kept and antiquated musket which he slung over one shoulder. He would check it was loaded later, but first he needed a diversion.
He looked about quickly, spotted no other guards, and climbed into the wagon, ducking under the canvas sheet that half hid its contents. He scanned the floor of the carriage looking for one of the small crates of munitions required to serve the cannon – no easy task in the poor light.
The dwarf-cannon was a piece of ingenuity taken from the Far East and tempered by the skills of Villeda’s engin
eers. It used gunpowder and a wad, but the loading took seconds rather than minutes, and the ball was the size of a fist and would splinter into shrapnel within a dozen yards of the barrel. From Lieutenant Vittore’s description of the cannon in action, William knew how devastating it could be, and again he thought of the harm it would cause the militia. He turned the barrel so it was pointing over the water. At that range the shot would explode harmlessly over it, not hurting a soul, but doing a good job of scaring these sleeping fools out of their skins.
Eventually he found a crate of shot and levered it open with the hilt of his sword. Inside it the balls were packed in wood shavings. Each one felt light, considering its size and purpose, and William was reminded that it was the scatter effect, not the range of the cannon, that made it so effective. He pushed the crate aside with his boot and looked up from under the canvas to check his bearings again. Then he dived back under and rummaged for powder and wads.
After much fumbling in the dark, his hands discovered the basket of wads, and he scrabbled for the keg of powder. He was running out of time. In his haste, he pushed some more crates aside. One of them toppled with a crash, and he swore quietly. The one keg he was looking for was not there.
Pausing to calm himself, he breathed out and peered desperately down into the darkness at his feet. Without the keg of powder his plan was useless. Cursing again, he straightened up and pushed the canvas back just a little, hoping to use the moon to light his search.
As the canvas shifted he found the barrel of a musket pointing straight at him from a couple of feet away, and next to it another.
William froze at the cocking of the flintlocks, and heard the heavy beating of his heart. He closed his eyes for a moment, then rose up slowly and pushed away the canvas, holding his arms above his head. He was struck suddenly by the sweet smell of something cooking far away, the sound of laughter around a campfire, and a bird calling in the distance. He was hungry, tired and he could do with a drink.
William was tugged from the wagon to land sprawling in the sand. His belt was cut away from him as he struggled, winded by the fall, before someone kicked him in the belly. He felt pain rip through him. Another kick sent him sprawling across the sand and blood flooded his mouth. He put a hand to his jaw before it was pulled away, and then he was yanked onto his feet by his hair. He staggered, but felt many hands upon him pulling him in opposite directions.
Finally one man took control and rammed his musket into William’s kidneys, causing him to cry out, before he was pushed and dragged away.
IX
After being hauled across the camp, tripped, kicked and punched in the process, William was hauled into a tent and thrown to the ground. There was a rug there, simple but soft compared to the coarse sand, and his fingers reached out to touch it, calming himself and letting the pain of his beatings drain away.
As he concentrated hard to lock the hurt in the back of his mind, he became aware of a voice, proud, mocking and clearly pleased by something. He peered up and found the leader of the militia, a man older than William by a few years. He stared down at William with dark eyes, edged with red veins like a drunkard’s, although his expression and posture were far from inebriated.
Haidar viewed the infidel with contempt. ‘Ignorant bastard’ he growled down at William in Arabic. ‘All infidels are ignorant.’
The guards that had brought William nodded in solidarity.
‘This is the scourge of our people,’ Haidar announced, and spat on the ground in front of William. ‘They come from overseas to subjugate us, to take our wealth, our women, and then destroy us!’
‘Kill him!’ snarled one of the guards.
Haidar looked up at the outburst, but far from being angry, he looked pleased. ‘Yes. Yes. And we will. But not before I make an example of this one. He has come to set his people free. Was that your plan, infidel?’
William looked up. He didn’t understand the words, but the tone was far from friendly.
We will see,’ Haidar smiled coldly. ‘We will torture him, and then find the truth. And then if we cannot find the truth, we will torture his friends some more!’
The guards nodded, laughing quickly. William recognized their intent. He was in dire trouble, and although he wasn’t bound, he didn’t know if he had the strength to escape, outnumbered as he was inside the tent, and without a weapon. As he knelt on the soft rug, blood dripping from his swollen lip, William realized that his only hope of getting through this mess alive lay with Thomas Richmond.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Battle at Bastet
I
William stared at the floor, waiting calmly now. The pain from the kicks and punches had grown numb. As the rhythm of his heart began to slow he felt a sense of detachment. He regarded his fate lucidly. As the minutes passed he knew that Thomas was not going to save him. How could he? What could one civilian do?
In the past it was luck that had intervened; and in recent months it was Marresca who had made the difference. ‘Where are you now?’ he found himself asking aloud. At that moment he would have given anything for a mere fraction of the Dar’uka’s strength.
Haidar looked down at William with scorn.
What should we do with him?’ one of the guards said.
Haidar tightened a red sash about his waist, then caressed the gilding of his sword. ‘We make an example of him tonight. The Europeans once hanged their enemies, then cut them open before drawing their guts out as punishment. I think we will do the same to this one. Then we will parade his head to his friends.’
The guards murmured in agreement, their eyes resting on William voraciously. They wanted blood. So far they had been content with beating the men in grey. This time there was promise of death.
‘Take a rope and bring Khalifa,’ Haidar ordered. ‘He has the hands of a surgeon. Let Khalifa remove his guts while the infidel still breathes.’
One of the guards bowed and left the tent. The others swooped down and held William fast where he lay. William looked up at Haidar and spat a glob of bloody phlegm on the Arab’s boot.
Haidar made an almost effeminate moan of outrage and his hand went to the handle of his sword. ‘I’ll cut you, dog!’ he shouted out. But his words were overlaid by an inhuman howl of rage that sounded for an instant far away, but suddenly wailed across the camp. The guards looked about nervously as a dreadful silence followed.
For many seconds it felt as though the entire oasis was holding its breath . . .
. . . Then the shouting and screaming began. The musket fire, The chaos, the running feet, the cries of dying men . . .
The guards were rattled. Only Haidar responded. He grabbed William by the neck and lifted him up, shouting into his face so that spittle rained on his cheeks. ‘You are doing this!’ he ranted. ‘You have brought fire upon my men! Tell me, who are you?’
William stared back at him, meeting his gaze resolutely. He did not fear, and he knew what was coming for them. ‘The Devil is here. And I will soon be dead,’ he told the leader of the militia, ‘but so will you . . .’
Haidar’s anger grew and he let William drop to the ground. He did not understand William’s words but saw the defiance. ‘I will not wait,’ he shouted and drew his scimitar. ‘The infidel dies now. Pull his arms back and show me his neck!’
William saw the sword begin to rise and he looked down, his mind filling with what would be lost: the company, Marco, Adriana. For a moment it didn’t seem to matter, as if this was the fate that luck had denied so often over the years.
The blade swung down. Time to die.
II
The militia knew nothing. No one saw the sentry’s blood being spilt. No one saw the vampyres swoop upon him, holding him tight before slashing open his wrists, his blood flowing down upon the Scarimadaen positioned before him in the sand.
The daemon’s spirit burst through the sentry’s body, warping flesh and bone out of all resemblance; then with a roar it rampaged down the bank of the lake,
its burning hide splashing across the water, leaving a trail of steam.
Then . .. Then, the militia knew. They could do nothing else but face this shrieking force of preternature. With each yard covered, the daemon brought pandemonium. A tent was torn apart, horses cut loose and left to stampede, guards disembowelled or torn limb from limb. One sentry had bravely leapt upon its back, but one swing of the creature’s scaly arm sent him through the air and into the nearest fire.
A few of the militia aimed their muskets, but the leaden balls made no impact on the beast. The survivors of the first few minutes’ carnage fled headlong into the desert, screaming and sobbing unintelligibly as the daemon spread havoc behind them. Yet flight brought no protection; the bald vampyre, Racinet, struck down the panicked militiamen, his half-moon flail winnowing souls in the darkness, slaying one, then two and then a third desperate runner, who abandoned first their posts and then their lives.
The female vampyre, Ileana, swept through the air after launching herself from the highest dune. She skimmed overhead, her arms outstretched with two long daggers in her hands, delivering swift deep cuts amongst the scattering soldiers with a ‘snick-snick’ sound. None of them knew what was happening, only that random countrymen were falling to the sandy floor, blood gushing from neck or stomach wounds. The night was a dance of death. Each soldier who fell, each man who perished, saw as his last a veil of night descending followed by the swift wet rip of steel through flesh. And at the centre, the daemon continued its onslaught, butchering all who came its way, hacking, severing, shovelling up horse and man to toss them into the air like rag dolls.
Baron Horia looked on with satisfaction. The defeat by the Rassis had blunted his appetite, yet now that blood was flowing, the thirst returned. The daemon was wreaking havoc across the oasis. It would burn itself out in time, but by then William Saxon’s gaolers would be no more.
The battle was bloody, and terribly one-sided.
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