III
Thomas sprinted through the confusion, skirting the daemon’s path. He ran past several tents, and in one the occupants came at him with their swords. He cut them down with ease. Ahead he saw men leaving the largest tent in the centre of the camp, and it struck him that perhaps he was too late, and Captain Saxon was already dead.
A militiaman crashed into him and both men fell. As the other man rose, Thomas slashed him across the arm and then grabbed him by his robe and swung him down. ‘Where is the infidel?’ he shouted.
The man looked up in agony and terror.
‘The tent. Haidar’s tent!’ Thomas shouted again, and followed the gesture that pointed to the largest tent.
‘Much obliged,’ he drawled in English, and thrust his sword upwards into the man’s ribcage. He made for the tent again as more musket-fire echoed about him.
It is possible that when Thomas entered the tent he did not fully grasp the scene that faced him. Had he paused to consider, everything might have turned sour, his master’s plans included. Had he been rash, there would have been no escape for any of the monks of the company.
When he entered he saw Haidar’s blade fall upon William. He swung his own sword upwards in the instant, an arcing slash that cut through Haidar’s wrist. The scimitar fell to the floor a fraction short, shaving hairs from William’s bowed head, but little else. Haidar stumbled back and saw his wrist spurt blood across his fine rug.
Seconds had passed. William’s two guards turned dumbstruck to Thomas, but he cut them down, cleaving one across the face, and spinning to thrust his sword into the stomach of the second.
William opened his eyes and stared down at the large scimitar and the hand that still held it. Firmly and swiftly, he was pulled to his feet.
‘Good, you’re not dead,’ Thomas grunted as he slashed William’s bonds.
‘Thomas?’ William choked. ‘I only hoped . . .’
‘As did I, Captain. As did I,’ Thomas replied and handed William a sword – it was one of the brothers’ sabres.
Haidar was rolling about in agony, jetting blood across the tent and himself. Thomas marched over and put the side of his sword against his neck. ‘Shall I kill this one?’
Haidar stopped screaming and was now looking up in terror at both men. He gestured wildly, sobbing for his life.
William felt sickened. He wanted the bastard to suffer, for beating him, for killing Vittore and imprisoning his men. But the sounds of battle outside brought different thoughts. ‘No, we need him alive,’ he replied.
Thomas couldn’t see why.
‘Our enemies are with us,’ William told him. ‘Those sounds are daemonic.’
Thomas recoiled, drawing his sword back as though the mere mention of these creatures evaporated his courage. He stepped away from the tent flap. Haidar scuttled into the corner of the tent and whimpered.
‘What did you see?’ William demanded.
‘Very little,’ Thomas whispered, trembling. ‘I was inside the camp before the first shots were fired. Then it turned to madness.’
‘We have to free my men, Thomas. This fellow can help us.’ William jerked a thumb towards the snivelling Haidar.
There was a trample of footsteps and three men rushed into the tent, all of them armed. They froze at the sight of the infidels. No one moved, until Haidar cried out and the oldest of the Arabs stepped forward, a lithe-looking man with two swords at his back. He drew one and stepped towards William.
‘Quickly, Thomas, tell them!’ William said, raising his sword in defence. ‘Tell them we know who’s attacking.’
The oldest man raised his sword. His eyes glared and William took guard, but he felt weak and his sword-arm was heavy. He could defend himself, but he wasn’t sure for how long.
As Thomas translated William’s words, the militiaman paused, surprised to hear an infidel speak their language. It was that pause William sought to exploit. He could have lunged in, could have thrust his sword into the man’s belly, but there was a greater enemy. ‘Tell them we’re not to blame,’ he added, ‘and we can help.’
One of the other militia spoke fast and then pointed at William, bellowing with rage.
‘Tell them we didn’t destroy Babel’s,’ William persisted, words flying out of his mouth in desperation. ‘It was . . .’ Before he could finish there was a catastrophic roar and the tent collapsed about them to the sound of snapping poles and cries of anguish. William was dragged to the floor and turned by chance to see the militia’s commander skewered by several talons through the stomach. Haidar shrieked over and over until blood rose in his throat and spilled over his lips.
William rolled away from the daemon as it shredded the Arab into pieces, the tent-cloth staining black. All was gloom and shadow until William pushed past the last layers of tent, grabbed a discarded spear and escaped into the dark of night.
Thomas was struggling out as William ran. He too scrambled for safety as the daemon rose from under the tattered fabric which had ignited and was starting to burn away. Now the blackened bulk of the creature emerged, smoking and animated with embers that spat and danced across its skin.
Thomas and William stared, the former in utter terror, The latter in awe.
William was certain it was the daemon they had faced at Babel’s, yet its head had shrunk and the mouth hung open to belch smoke and ashes that sped like tiny fireflies into the air. It shook what was left of Haidar from its enormous paws, and bent over to delve in the tent for the others. It caught a guard who was twisted up in a curtain and tossed him high into the air and out of sight. The second guard was crawling away when the daemon stamped on his head with a sickening crack.
The last man, the oldest, pushed himself from the wreckage of poles and fabric and stared up at the daemon as it dropped its head towards him. It opened its jaws and the man was engulfed in smoke and the stink of sulphur.
Despite the pain raking his body, William found himself running towards the militiaman. He swung his spear to waist height and then shouted at the monster a few feet before he reached it. The daemon lifted its head just as William’s thrust drove the spear into its mouth. It seemed to choke, and the spear was swallowed inside a spray of sparks and blue fire. The creature’s bulk vanished for that moment in a huge funnel of smoke and with growls of hoarse discomfort. In the confusion, William grabbed the militiaman by the collar and hauled him out from under the flailing talons.
Half dragged, half stumbling, both men lurched away into the shadows where Thomas was hiding.
‘Damned foolish!’ the Englishman chided.
‘We need every ally, Thomas!’ William shouted. ‘Ask his name.’
Thomas did so, but at first the man would not reply, simply staring at William with little comprehension.
Finally he spoke. ‘His name is Khalifa. And he thanks you for saving his life.’
‘Tell him he can thank me later,’ William replied. ‘I need my men freed and our weapons, or we’ll all die from this creature!’
Khalifa nodded, pulling himself upright, the ordeal leaving little mark upon him. That same dangerous determination in his eyes had returned. He gestured to the rear of the camp where the fighting was less, and spoke with frantic speed.
‘He’ll send a man to free them,’ Thomas translated, surprised at the turn of events. ‘He wants to know what that creature is and how to kill it.’
‘No time to explain,’ William answered. ‘We should worry about the vampyres, Thomas. They unleashed the daemon and I doubt they’ll be far away. Tell Khalifa to gather his men and shoot anything that comes at them on foot or on the wing. We’ll deal with the daemon ourselves.’
As Khalifa dashed away, William bent down to take a discarded sword from the sand. Its previous owner had fled, and probably died. But William would not run, he would not cower, and he would fight to the death.
IV
There were three cages. Each one had barely room for five or six, yet into each were crammed over a do
zen brothers of the order. When William got to them, all the rage swelled up into his chest and he ran the last few steps until his hands gripped the bars of their prison. ‘We’re here! We’re here!’ he kept telling them. ‘Are you harmed? Is Peruzo there?’
‘Here . . . came a faint reply from the third cage. William went over to the hand extended through the bars. He took it and held it.
‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.
‘A couple of bruises,’ Peruzo said. ‘There are others in worse condition. They haven’t fed us and they kept us short of water.’
‘Bastards!’ William growled. ‘I will free you all, I promise.’
‘They . . . They beat some of the brothers . . . Badly,’ Peruzo began.
William could not speak.
‘Brother Casper is blind,’ Peruzo said miserably. ‘They burnt out his eyes when he would not talk.’
William gripped the bars tightly, as though with all his rage he might pull them apart with his bare hands.
‘Others were tortured. I think Brother Gregory has died. We cannot rouse him.’
William turned away, tears pricking his eyes. ‘Open the cages, you bastards! Open these bloody cages now!’ he screamed into the night.
Khalifa loomed out of the smoke with another militiaman, keys in his hands. As they approached, William snarled at Khalifa, who appeared unmoved, before he snatched the keys from the shaking militiaman and shove d him to the ground. The Arab scurried off to find a hiding place as William tried the keys to the padlock of Peruzo’s cage, cursing in Italian, English and any language that came to mind as he babbled words of utter rage.
At last the padlock opened and William hurled it away, tugging the door open. He helped out Peruzo who wobbled on his feet. ‘Can you walk?’
‘I think so,’ Peruzo replied.
‘Help the others,’ William said as he went to the next cage. He unlocked it and then went to the following cage, all the while shouting words of support to his men.
Behind him Thomas watched with admiration, stealing glances at Khalifa, who looked wary that these freed men might soon take their revenge upon him. William and the several monks whose strength remained were laying out the wounded. One of them fetched water. Six men were in such bad shape that they hardly seemed able to walk, let alone fight.
Brother Casper, though blind, would not hear of it. ‘I can fight well enough as long as someone tells me where the enemy is!’ he yelled indignantly.
William tried to calm him, but understood his frustration. ‘My weapons!’ he shouted at Thomas, but it was more to the man called Khalifa. ‘Tell him I want my weapons back! Now!’
Khalifa pointed to the wagon nearest the water. William remembered the dwarf-cannon, but didn’t recall other weaponry.
‘What about our rifles?’ he demanded.
Khalifa shrugged when Thomas asked.
‘Bastard!’ William spat at the Arab. ‘The throwing stars, the knives . . . Tell him, Thomas . . . Now!’ William seethed; they were getting nowhere. He beckoned to Peruzo. ‘Get every man who can fight over to the dwarf-cannon. Tell them to scour the oasis for weapons. Anything they can get their hands on. We can reclaim our own weapons later.’
‘What are we facing?’ Peruzo asked.
‘At least one daemon, and almost certainly vampyres.’
‘It will be done,’ Peruzo said and trudged back to the monks who waited by the cages.
‘Thomas? Get this—’ William began, but his effort to find an insult fit for Khalifa came out as a growl. ‘Just send him back to his men. Let them fight the vampyres alone. We’ll help when I see fit .’
Thomas sent Khalifa away and waited. ‘Where should I be?’
William regarded the Englishman for a moment. He handled a sword well enough, but this was a daemon they were fighting. ‘Go with him.’
‘But, Captain . . .’
‘Make sure they don’t do anything stupid, Thomas. If they can occupy the vampyres long enough, it will give us more time,’ William explained.
Thomas reluctantly followed Khalifa to the periphery of the oasis, looking over his shoulder at the men making ready for battle.
William addressed his troops. ‘This has been rough, and there is worse to come. You have suffered greatly and I would not ask more of your courage if our mission did not demand it. Our enemies have attacked us at a time when they think we are at our weakest. We must prove them wrong. We must show them there will never be a perfect moment to attack the men of Saint Sallian. We are men of the Order. This is what we have trained for.’
The monks nodded, galvanizing themselves.
‘There is a daemon out there, and we can bring it down,’ William insisted. ‘We only need a plan. And I have one.’
V
Brothers Ricardo, Paldini and Adams scrambled into the wagon and tugged away the canvas that covered the cannon. Fortunately, the gun was already aimed in the direction of battle. Looking out from the deck of the wagon the brothers noted flames shooting up around the camp, one conflagration totally out of control.
In the shadows, figures dashed about in panic as something huge and baleful lumbered after them. Shriek after shriek pierced the air as these men were torn apart along a path that was coming closer.
The brothers stationed themselves in a perimeter that stretched not far from the water’s edge down two flanks, leaving open the way to the wagon. Peruzo marshalled the men, those few who had found muskets at the front, while those with hand weapons waited at the rear. Some of the men appeared ready to collapse from exhaustion, and William had water supplied by means of discarded canteens and water-skins.
Who’s the rabbit?’ Peruzo asked as he looked down the path to the water.
‘That will be me,’ William answered.
Peruzo shook his head vehemently. ‘You cannot . . .’
‘I am the only one of us who can run, Lieutenant,’ William told him. ‘You are in no shape yourself, and nor are the others. If I had my choice, none of you would be fighting.’
‘There are no choices here, Captain,’ Peruzo reminded him.
‘Exactly,’ William smiled ruefully. ‘We only have one shot at this. If it fails, we could lose many more men trying to bring the daemon down. I’ve already lost more men on this mission than I bargained for. We are in poor shape, Peruzo.’
The lieutenant conceded.
‘Fire the dwarf-cannon within four yards of the daemon. Anything further away will have little impact,’ William said as he tucked the sword under his belt. He rued the loss of Engrin’s sword, but now was not the time to hunt for it.
‘Just make sure you get out of its way,’ Peruzo called after him as he marched towards the water.
William did not linger. Why delay the inevitable? It came to him that the plan was crazy and folly at best. And at worst . . .? He jogged silently over the sand.
The brothers looked on in admiration. This was not just their captain; it was a man who was prepared to sacrifice himself. Every last one of them prayed inwardly that he would survive.
Closer to the water, William retrieved a musket lying in the sand. It was rusty and he doubted it would fire a single shot. But shooting the daemon was not his first thought. He stepped into the water up to his ankles and began to wave the musket in the air with one hand, the sword in the other.
The daemon was wallowing in carnage, yet throughout the destruction wrought, it exulted little: there could never be enough. Around its arms hung rags that might have been the host’s clothes, or the vestiges of those it had murdered. The necrotic abomination only halted its mindless demolition of the camp when distracted by the sound of William’s taunting. The daemon snarled in the back of its swollen throat and then roared to the challenge. Picking up its splayed feet, it hauled its smouldering hide into the water and towards its gesticulating prey.
‘Come on, you bastard,’ William shouted. ‘Come and get me.’
The creature waded out until the water came up to its breast, flo
oding its jaws so that the water boiled and pulses of steam gushed out. At first the daemon was slow, impeded by the depth of the water, but too soon the bed of the lake rose again and its momentum increased. As the water fell away, it opened its dripping mouth and exhaled a rolling gust of sulphuric breath, darker than night. Behind it the fiery glow of its slanted eyes burned like volcanic gashes in its blackened skull. It uttered a primordial growl as it surged forward through the lake.
The hulking shape came on, and William’s heart beat faster. The daemon was no longer marching towards him, it was charging.
‘Oh, bloody hell!’ The words spluttered over William’s lips as he turned and ran. He had not rehearsed every step of his plan, his path to the mouth of the cannon. There were obstacles to pass: debris, dismembered bodies, discarded sacks . . .
And a heartbeat behind him, the daemon trampled through the grass, the tips whipping its hide.
William was out of the tall grass and hurdling over the body of a militiaman. Ahead of him, his vision blurred and shaking, he could see the wagon half lit up by a nearby fire. He felt the ground trembling as the daemon came after him; he could almost feel its heat on the back of his neck now and smelled the sulphur fuming from its throat.
He put his head down and ran harder, every breath, every move, focused on self-preservation. He could not tell whether he would make it, or what folly the plan might have been. Death had reached for him already that night. Would he cheat it once more?
As the cannon came into view, he saw Peruzo rise and take aim with a musket. Looking to his captain for an instant, he fired over William’s head, the single gun making a weak report. His aim was true and the shot rebounded off the daemon’s shoulder, but not hard enough to slow it. William did not look back as he came to the cannon and dived to the floor . . .
. . . Just as the daemon reached out for him.
Peruzo dropped the empty musket and yelled: ‘FIRE!’
The dwarf-cannon exploded. Smoke spurted from the weapon with a low rumble, followed almost simultaneously by an ear-splitting crack as the cannonball flew through the air and split into shards a moment later. The shrapnel tore through the daemon’s head, which burst with a muffled crunch . . .
The Hoard of Mhorrer Page 27