The Hoard of Mhorrer

by M. F. W. Curran

  He found himself running, jumping over guy ropes and around baskets, dashing past livestock and their owners, before he passed the perimeter of the camp and kept on running. He had sprinted many yards before he made out the gaunt expressions of the riders. Lieutenant Peruzo, Jericho, the English merchant and . . . Marco beamed. His uncle too.

  As the company rode by, Peruzo did not look down at him, his face as grim and grey as his hair. Jericho winked at Marco but he too looked exhausted. When William drew level he halted his horse and peered down. ‘You are well?’ he asked him.

  Marco nodded, noting the blood on his uncle’s jacket, the dirt on his face and the dust in his hair.

  ‘Come,’ William said, putting a hand down to him. Marco took it and was pulled up onto the horse behind William. He held on in silence as they trotted into the Ayaida camp, The tribespeople cheering and waving. For William it was most unexpected, until Sheikh Fahd arrived, flanked by an escort clad in their finest robes.

  It made William crave a bath and shave.

  ‘I am glad you are alive, Captain Saxon,’ Sheikh Fahd greeted and bowed slightly.

  ‘As am I, sir,’ William replied wearily.

  ‘And the militia are not in pursuit?’ he added.

  William shook his head. ‘We came to an agreement,’ he replied, recalling Khalifa’s parting words. The company’s weapons had almost all been returned by the militia at Bastet, save for those exchanged for horses to carry back William’s men to the Ayaida. But it was Khalifa who told William that he would send word to the militia from the nearby towns that they were not to harm the men in grey. He also told William that should he need anything in Rashid, then he had only to send word and it was his. Khalifa believed that Allah had shown clemency and that William was a friend of Egypt, rather than an infidel.

  These assurances almost made up for the terrible conditions and torture of William’s men, and like a diplomat, William was outwardly grateful. But deep down, he hated Khalifa and his rabble. What they had done to the monks was unforgivable.

  ‘Your losses were great?’ Sheikh Fahd continued.

  ‘They were too high, yes,’ William said softly. ‘But the company remains strong.’

  ‘Later we must hear of your exploits,’ Sheikh Fahd insisted. ‘My guests would very much like to hear them.’

  William looked to the Arabs who were remarking his travel-stained state. Compared with their finery, he felt uncomfortable and scruffy. He was feeling far from sociable. but he mustered a bow, and Sheikh Fahd was satisfied, he and his guests bowing back before they turned away.

  Once out of sight, William wilted in his saddle.

  ‘A celebration, with you as the centre of attention, Captain? Most fortunate,’ Thomas teased. ‘I envy you.’

  ‘I am not going alone, Thomas,’ William insisted, staring back at him.

  Thomas’s smile waned and he studied William for a moment. The smile that followed was grudging but then warm. ‘Very well. If you wish me to attend, I will be honoured.’

  Thomas and Hammid dismounted and led their horses away as William let down Marco and then dismounted himself.

  ‘Pitch camp at the edge of the settlement,’ William said to Peruzo. ‘Not too far away this time. And keep an eye on Marco if you can.’

  Peruzo nodded silently. He had not said a word in hours.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ William asked.

  ‘No,’ Peruzo replied, and then he corrected himself. ‘You spend much of your time with the Englishman now.’

  William almost reprimanded Peruzo, his tone insolent for an officer in the Order, but the events of recent days had been hard on them all. ‘He is an ally, Lieutenant. He may have his uses,’ William explained calmly.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Peruzo replied, ‘but I do not like his servant.’

  ‘Hammid?’

  ‘Unsavoury . Untrustworthy . No good will come of it,’ Peruzo said gruffly.

  ‘Let me decide that, Lieutenant,’ William retorted. ‘Just be sure the camp is pitched and our wounded looked after. I have a feeling our rest here will be short.’

  Peruzo brightened a little. ‘We move out soon?’

  ‘If these guests are allies of the sheikh, then we surely will.’ William looked along the line of monks who were stretching from the days of riding or helping with the wounded. ‘What do you make of the company?’ he murmured.

  Peruzo turned to them and rubbed at the stubble on his left cheek. He shrugged a little as he thought about it. ‘I would say that a day and a night of rest would much improve their constitutions, Captain. But even then, only twenty-four men would be fit enough to travel.’

  ‘Just twenty-four?’ William was dismayed. ‘I hoped there would be more. Not exactly the force I wanted to lead.’

  ‘You don’t believe there are enough men, do you?’

  William looked at Peruzo. He could not lie to him, not after all they had endured. ‘It never was, my friend. Against the Rassis in a straight fight, the full company had a slim chance. but now that we’ve lost so many . . .’

  ‘The mission ends here?’

  ‘That depends on our allies. The Bedouins are our last hope.’ William paced a little and shook his head. ‘What of our wounded? Is there any chance they can recover quickly enough?’

  ‘Some may never recover, Captain. More days of riding like this will surely kill them.’

  William noted the anger in Peruzo’s voice. ‘See that the others are ready in the morning,’ he ordered. ‘And gather what weapons remain.’

  ‘What of the gunpowder Engrin sent us?’ Peruzo said out of the blue.

  ‘Hopefully, it is still with the Ayaida. If it is, we take it with us.’

  ‘We are disobeying Cardinal Devirus’s orders?’

  ‘Yes,’ William replied. ‘I hoped that it wouldn’t come to that. It would be some achievement, riding into Rome with two hundred and fifty Scarimadaen, would it not?’

  ‘But if the Dar’uka came to our aid . . .’ Peruzo said.

  William bit his lip. ‘Did you see them at Bastet, Peruzo?’ he said. ‘Did they come when we needed them the most?’

  Peruzo shook his head.

  ‘We cannot count on them,’ William said. ‘Vittore was right. We must trust in what we believe. And I can only believe that somehow we will find allies here in the desert that are more dependable than “angels”.’

  III

  He bathed, but did not shave. Even after washing away the days of dust and blood, dirt still felt ingrained in every pore. A long soak was what he really needed.

  Marco dressed nervously, having been invited to the evening meal too. His hands shook as he pulled on the man-sized shirt and jacket that Thomas had lent him. He hoped there would be one particular guest at the meal – one he looked forward to seeing the most, but was worried that others would suspect his feelings for her.

  William sensed the nervousness in Marco. ‘What did you do while I was absent?’ he asked.

  ‘Not much. Nothing at all,’ Marco spluttered and his cheeks reddened.

  ‘Just kept to the tent?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ Marco murmured. He hated to lie, but his uncle would lambast him if he found out; just as the sheikh would be furious with Jamillah if he discovered they had spent the last two nights sparring.

  Jamillah was more than Marco’s equal, a master of the sword who would impress even his uncle. Neither of them understood the other’s words, but that was fine. The dance they made with their swords was language enough, especially with someone as beautiful as Jamillah. He had learned more from striving to match her graceful movements than he had learned under his aunt’s or Peruzo’s tutelage. He learned how to feint, how to use balance to wrong-foot his opponent, how to move half as gracefully as she . . .

  And more: Marco learned how to fall in love.

  He hid these facts from his uncle as they left the tent with Thomas and strolled through the twilight air to the mouth of the great pavilion. The bodyguard c
alled Hisham stood before them. He regarded them quite fleetingly, eyeing their shabby clothes, and only Thomas noted the subtle criticism in his expression.

  The tent flaps were tied back so that music and laughter flowed out undiluted. As they walked in, m en appeared with dishes spilling over with meat and fruit, while empty plates left the pavilion. Inside the main chamber of the tent the guests had been arranged in a circle, lying or sitting cross-legged on great cushions or mats as they reached for their food.

  Sheikh Fahd sat opposite, two others by his side, including a woman in white and yellow. The sheikh gestured for them to sit and the three made themselves comfortable to his left, in the space between the woman and an older man resplendent in bright clothes gilded with gold and silver. The jewellery about his neck could have bought an entire village; such prosperity William had never considered possible for simple nomads. He wondered at Sheikh Fahd’s standing with these men, and whether these were his allies or his masters.

  For over an hour William watched as the sheikh wined and dined Sheikh Mazin (who sat next to Thomas) and a second sheikh who was not much older than Marco, called Anwar, who sat with the third sheikh, Galal, facing them. Anwar was a bright enthusiastic man-child who had swaggered into the tent all bluster and display, which Thomas translated as: ‘You’re not starting a war without me!’ Galal was content to sit quietly, smiling politely, while Mazin looked uncomfortable, scowling at his neighbours.

  William was in no humour for the finer aspects of the evening. For every song that was harmonized, and for every dancing girl that Sheikh Fahd paraded in front of them, he could only think of Adriana and how long he had been away from her. He longed to get back to her, he wanted to finish this mission.

  Marco had kept quiet throughout the meal. He had so far managed to avoid eye contact with Jamillah, who had been sitting veiled in her white and yellow gown. Like Marco she had acted indifferently, quietly looking to the other sheikhs when they spoke, listening to her brother when he made an announcement. Yet those eyes gave her away. Now and again he felt them upon him. Fear and his pounding heart forced him not to look back.

  After another dancer finished her performance, the women guests were dismissed. Marco tried his best not to watch Jamillah leave, looking after her for just a moment as she departed, flanked by bodyguards. But his eyes lingered longer than they should have, and William cursed his nephew under his breath, praying that Sheikh Fahd had not noticed.

  To William, this woman could only be the sheikh’s wife or someone of equal importance. That Marco was captivated by her was both unexpected and dangerous. William hoped it was a fleeting thing, yet it dawned on him that more had happened while he was away than Marco had let on.

  Thomas leant over to William as Sheikh Fahd addressed the guests. ‘Sheikh Fahd speaks of his intentions and how the tribe’s elders have allowed him to summon the sheikhs of neighbouring tribes, their allies,’ Thomas whispered. ‘He says that a great curse has fallen on these lands. Greater than the poison spread by Ali. For this curse has claimed the lives of his people, including his brother. And throughout legend, the area known as the Valley of Fire has been a place of ghosts and spirits who deal only death . . . But now this man . . .’

  Sheikh Fahd was gesturing towards William and the three other sheikhs and their henchmen stared across. He stared back, a little nervous. ‘. . . This man says they are not ghosts, but flesh and blood,’ Thomas continued to translate. ‘This man who knows about such matters says they can be killed.’

  The older sheikh, Mazin, with a short beard that was greying at the tip, a single scar across his brow, began laughing.

  ‘What is funny?’ William whispered to Thomas.

  ‘He thinks you’re a liar,’ Thomas replied.

  William blushed. ‘Tell him I speak the truth.’

  ‘Perhaps it is not wise to speak yet, Captain,’ Thomas cautioned. ‘This is a precarious meeting. We would not wish to speak out of turn.’

  William blushed even deeper but nodded. ‘Of course.’

  Sheikh Fahd gestured again to William and began to speak directly to the older sheikh.

  ‘He is explaining why they are flesh and blood,’ Thomas translated and smiled. ‘He tells this sheikh he is a fool to ignore your words.’

  William’s face cooled and he crossed his arms, glancing at Sheikh Mazin, who glowered back.

  ‘Now the older sheikh thinks Fahd has been bewitched . . .’ Thomas said.

  William shook his head, frustrated more and more by the palaver. Marco just found it tiresome. He forgot himself and yawned.

  Sheikh Fahd broke off and laughed. ‘I see our youngest guest is tired,’ he remarked.

  William prodded Marco and he straightened up. ‘If he wishes to be dismissed, let him go, Captain Saxon. This is a matter for soldiers, not boys,’ Sheikh Fahd acknowledged.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ William said and turned to Marco, signalling that he could leave.

  Marco got to his feet and walked from the gathering. William watched him leave, suspicion mounting about what the boy might have done in his absence. He remembered the woman in the white and yellow dress. He remembered Sheikh Fahd’s talk of a rebellious sister.

  Jamillah. Wasn’t that her name?

  With Marco gone, the youngest sheikh began speaking.

  ‘Captain Saxon,’ Sheikh Fahd said, and gestured to Anwar. ‘These are the words of Sheikh Anwar. He asks why he should follow you to the Valley of Fire.’

  ‘Please tell Sheikh Anwar, sir, that should I fail in my mission to destroy the evil in that valley, then that evil will spread like a flood over the Sinai. It will destroy everything in its path. Long before my lands are touched by this evil, the Sinai and all of Egypt will burn.’

  Sheikh Fahd paused before translating, the horror of that threat all too apparent. He told Sheikh Anwar, who began to lose his sceptical expression, but whose question remained.

  ‘Sheikh Anwar asks again, why should you lead such an army into battle?’ Sheikh Fahd said, while the other sheikhs nodded their agreement.

  ‘I’ve been fighting this war for a long time, yet here I stand. My men are battle-hardened. Three days ago we killed a daemon. And time is running out, Sheikh Fahd,’ William replied.

  Sheikh Fahd relayed the message, and the youngest sheikh responded. He rose to his feet and gestured to the sky.

  ‘He will join us,’ Sheikh Fahd announced to William. ‘He has twenty warriors in his entourage and another six hundred can be called upon. He deems it an honour to fight such a foe.’

  William bowed to Sheikh Anwar.

  The second sheikh, not much older than Fahd, had short curly hair and wore the plainest robes of the three. He stood and spoke quickly. Sheikh Fahd bowed gratefully and looked back to William. ‘Sheikh Galal pledges his thirty men here, and another five hundred riders.’

  William nodded again, bowing to Sheikh Galal. ‘And what of Sheikh Mazin?’ he said, and glanced at the oldest sheikh who sat seemingly unmovable.

  Sheikh Fahd asked a question that Mazin seemed to dismiss, before Anwar said something curt to the older sheikh that made him rage.

  ‘A fine insult,’ Thomas chuckled by William’s side.

  Sheikh Mazin sprang to his feet, hurling abuse at the amused Sheikh Anwar, and then glowered in fury at William.

  ‘Sheikh Mazin promises his entourage and another five hundred and fifty men,’ Sheikh Fahd announced, ‘but he refuses to bring his cannon.’

  ‘Cannon?’ William said, a little surprised.

  ‘Relics of an old war, Captain Saxon. I doubt they could even fire in a straight line, but the Suwarka have kept these antiques for generations,’ Sheikh Fahd said pleasantly, without any hint of mockery that would enrage Mazin further.

  ‘Even without his cannons, it will do,’ William assured the sheikh. ‘That’s over eighteen hundred men.’

  ‘Two and a half thousand men,’ Sheikh Fahd corrected, ‘including my riders’

  ‘
Very well,’ William said and bowed to each sheikh in turn. Finally he addressed Sheikh Fahd. ‘We should leave tomorrow, sir.’

  Sheikh Fahd clapped his hands together. ‘I agree. Tomorrow morning, Captain,’ he insisted. ‘Why should vengeance wait?’

  IV

  Racinet raged.

  ‘I want blood!’ he snarled as he looked down on the Ayaida from the gloom of the rocks.

  ‘No, Racinet. You cannot,’ Baron Horia replied.

  ‘They murdered Ileana! They tortured her! At least give me the one with the silver hair. His head at least I must have!’ Racinet implored.

  ‘You will do nothing. And if you disobey me, I will take your head instead, Racinet,’ Baron Horia promised angrily agitated by the bald vampyre’s constant threats and profanity. Two days and nights of Racinet’s outbursts had tormented Baron Horia to distraction. Had he not needed him so badly, he would have beheaded the troublesome creature some time since.

  ‘Ileana disobeyed me and paid the price. I forbade her to prey on the monks,’ Horia declared. ‘My orders were simple: only the militia to be harmed. We need the monks to live to fight the Rassis, or my plan is redundant. Ileana weakened Saxon’s little brigade too much. I should’ve kept her on a leash, don’t you think?’

  Racinet snarled again and stepped forward, but faltered as Horia’s hand brushed the hilt of his sword.

  ‘You exhaust me, Racinet,’ Horia said wearily. ‘And you bore me. I haven’t come all this way to fail. If you challenge me as Ileana did, I will leave you to die here as well. I will not waste one dark hour considering your fate. And it would be unpleasant, Racinet – oh yes, quite unpleasant. This is a land of little shelter, and a sun that would burn the skin from your bones, as it burned Ileana’s.’

  Racinet bit down on his lip with his jagged and rotten teeth. The shards drew blood, but it was black and coagulated, a sludge that oozed from his mouth and down his bone-white chin. ‘When this is over, Baron, there will be a reckoning,’ he promised. ‘You left her there to die.’