The Hoard of Mhorrer

by M. F. W. Curran

  ‘You heard Thomas Richmond’s warnings, Racinet,’ Baron Horia said. ‘They were waiting for a rescue. It would have been folly.’

  ‘You didn’t even try,’ Racinet lamented.

  ‘I know you loved her. Your lust for Ileana was not unnoticed by me. But do not forget our prize: a world of our own to rule for ever. Lords of all men, Racinet. Such a prize surpasses the mourning of one lover. I will let you loose upon them in time, but isn’t the prize of success worth the price of delay?’ Baron Horia tossed his long red hair. His eyes flashed blue in the darkness and he radiated confidence. but in his arrogance he did not notice Racinet’s implacable expression. If he had he might have acted.

  ‘Come now, the sun arrives in a matter of hours and we must return to our caravan,’ Horia said, rising from the outcrop of rock, his long limbs straightening up with fluid movements. Many miles distant lay the haven of their covered wagon, hidden in the deepest desert away from curious eyes. It would take hours to reach it, but there was no alternative. Nothing could survive without shelter in this wasteland, be it human or immortal.

  Twisting away, Horia receded into the night, away from the camp, away from the fires and the stirring of life. Racinet hung back as his master slid into shadow; his fury was out of control. His long fingernails had dug deep into the dead skin of his hands, drawing the same lines of blackened blood. His eyes flashed wildly, and tears would have flowed if they had not dried up many many years ago.

  It was Horia’s mistake to suppose that he could curb a being like Racinet, a creature so reckless, so predisposed to irrationality and raging emotion. It was not just lust that governed Racinet’s actions. He had cared for Ileana, and she for him.

  He had truly loved her.

  As Racinet advanced from the rocky outcrop, the handle of his half-moon flail was already at his fingertips. ‘Sometimes, my Baron, vengeance is more important,’ he murmured and loped through the night towards the camp of the Ayaida.

  V

  Marco waited until the last of the guards had gone and then slipped out of the tent. He could not tell how long his uncle might be absent, but he’d take that chance to see Jamillah again. With a pounding heart, all of his senses alert, he crept through the gloom, hugging the shadows in case any guard or other Bedouin was still awake, before stepping silently over guy-ropes, past rugs that shifted in the midnight breeze, past tethered goats and baskets of grain.

  Dinner with the sheikh and his guests had tried his nerves, all the more so with Jamillah in attendance. She was the sheikh’s family, and whatever he felt for her was forbidden, yet Marco didn’t care.

  He had feelings for Jamillah that were far greater than any desire he had felt for a girl in Villeda. He had once led a girl called Helena to the Maldinis’ barn, and they had fooled about, touching each other’s hitherto secret places until the sounds of Tustio Maldini approaching scared her away. but with Jamillah he wanted something else. With Jamillah there was a terror inside that made him feel sick with excitement. He didn’t want to just touch her; he wasn’t just curious about what she concealed under those gowns, or behind that black veil. He wanted to hold her, To talk to her, and finally kiss her gently on the lips. Nothing more.

  As before, Marco arrived at the corral and waited, looking about in case the sheikh’s guards lay in wait. He didn’t believe his luck would last for ever; sooner or later their forbidden meetings were bound to be interrupted.

  Like the moth drawn to her candle-flame, Marco did not care.

  He hunkered down between two horses and waited, stroking the animals as they grew restless and pawed at the ground. Footsteps approached. Macro stood up and sidled past the edge of the closest horse. He paused at the edge of the corral, waiting to be sure. Then, from the gloom, came the woman in white and yellow, her handmaidens behind her.

  Marco grinned and straightened up. He brushed a hand over the clothes that Thomas had given him, ran his fingers through his hair, and started forward.

  ‘Marco . . .’ came a whisper.

  Marco froze in mid-step. The voice did not come from Jamillah.

  ‘Marco!’ it came again, this time a hiss.

  Marco turned slowly and someone grabbed him by the collar.

  ‘Why are you here?’ the voice demanded suddenly, and Marco realized who was holding him.

  Lieutenant Peruzo stared gravely at the boy, then glanced over to Jamillah and her two attendants. Luckily he and Marco were still in shadow.

  ‘Speak! What are you doing?’ Peruzo prompted.

  ‘Nuh . . . Nothing!’ Marco protested.

  ‘Your uncle told me to keep an eye on you,’ Peruzo said. ‘I certainly didn’t think why!’

  ‘He doesn’t know,’ Marco replied and held his hands together hopefully. ‘Please . . . Don’t tell him.’

  Peruzo eyed Marco with the same demeanour as an older brother might. He was loath to hide Marco’s secret, yet he knew it was a trivial one compared with the other problems that had plagued the mission.

  ‘Were you following me?’ Marco whispered indignantly.

  Peruzo shook his head. ‘I was checking the horses. We may leave here tomorrow. The captain wants everyone ready.’

  ‘Including me?’ Marco said hopefully.

  Peruzo shrugged. ‘He did not say. Though no doubt after tonight, he may think twice.’

  ‘Please!’ Marco protested, raising his voice. ‘Please don’t tell him, Peruzo! He doesn’t have to know!’

  Marco forgot himself, or rather their situation, and his raised voice caught the women’s attention. They began to call over, and when no one replied, Jamillah and her women walked towards the horses.

  ‘Blast it, Marco,’ Peruzo seethed, and clamped his hand over the young man’s mouth.

  Marco had other ideas. He tore loose from the lieutenant’s grip, stepped out into the corral and waved at Jamillah, a boyish smile on his face, hoping that the gloom might mask his nervousness.

  As Jamillah closed to within a couple of feet, Peruzo appeared at Marco’s shoulder and she froze. The sight of her clothes and her two attendants told him that she was someone of importance – someone dangerous. So he laid one steady hand on Marco’s shoulder and said calmly: ‘We must leave.’

  Marco was caught in two minds. He knew that Peruzo was right, yet how could he leave Jamillah, with her smiling eyes, her dance with the sword? He wanted to be with her, and knew, just knew, that she wanted the same.

  ‘Say goodnight to your friend,’ Peruzo insisted, his tone a command.

  Marco sighed and smiled apologetically at Jamillah. ‘I’m sorry . . .’ he began.

  Whatever else he thought of saying was stopped short as something whined in the air. Peruzo heard it a fraction sooner, and before Marco registered danger the older lieutenant had grabbed his shoulders and pushed him to the ground, just as the air around them erupted in a swathe of ripping sounds like fabric rent apart.

  Trapped by Peruzo’s bulk, Marco heard screams.

  ‘Jamillah!’ he shouted.

  Peruzo looked up to see one of the handmaidens stagger to one side, her eyes looking into darkness as blood brimmed over her lips, the front of her dress glistening in the half-light, running dark red. The other handmaiden simply stood and screamed, her hands over her mouth, as the first fell face-down in the dust.

  Jamillah was uncomprehending, frozen in disbelief. Peruzo leapt up and rushed towards her, seizing her hand as the half-moon flail whipped out again. The crescent blades carved through the air she had stood in a heartbeat before, and struck the second handmaiden, severing all four fingers of her left hand and gouging her shoulder.

  More screams and sobbing, and Marco got to his knees.

  ‘Stay down!’ Peruzo shouted.

  Marco stopped his rise, and it was enough for the vampyre to miss him by mere inches as he soared overhead and landed in the sand several feet beyond. Racinet looked down at the handmaidens, the first lying dead in a spreading pool of blood, the second crawl
ing away with choking sobs, before the vampyre twirled his flail again. Peruzo was unarmed and could do nothing but dash towards the vampyre with outstretched hands. He managed to grip one arm before it could release the flail, but the struggle at close quarters was one-sided. As Racinet roared defiance into Peruzo’s face, his fury transformed into strength that picked up Peruzo and hurled him against a corral post. He hit it with a crack that snapped the post and felled Peruzo too. Inside the corral, several of the horses bolted, barely missing Peruzo in the small stampede.

  The clamour brought cries of alarm from around the camp.

  ‘Vengeance!’ Racinet roared, ignoring the growing danger, and he advanced on Peruzo’s prone body. The lieutenant did not move . . . Out cold, or dead.

  As the vampyre approached, there came another cry, this time from Marco.

  ‘Jamillah! No!’ he shouted.

  Her attack caught the vampyre unprepared. Jamillah’s blade hissed past his cheek and he stumbled back, astonished by the speed of the sword that spun patterns against him. For a moment, Racinet thought it was the spirit of Ileana. But as Jamillah attacked again, the life in her eyes told him different.

  Jamillah followed her quick feint by a slash with her sword that cut through the vampyre’s sleeve and gashed his arm. Racinet recovered his instincts and kicked off into the air, surprising Jamillah, who failed to take guard as she marvelled at such a feat. He turned in mid-air, pulled out a dagger and plunged it into her shoulder. Marco ran to her, catching Jamillah’s body before it could hit the dust.

  By the corral, Peruzo stirred. Racinet turned back to the lieutenant. ‘Now you will pay your penance for Ileana . . .’ he hissed and set the half-moon twirling once again.

  Behind him, Marco pulled the knife from Jamillah’s shoulder. She cried out in agony and fell unconscious, blood gushing from her shoulder and over his hands – so much blood. Jamillah was surely dying, and utter fury welled up inside Marco, driving the tears from his eyes. The colour had drained from her face: he was losing her.

  To that creature . . .

  Flaring with rage, Marco turned to the vampyre, his vision blurred. In that maelstrom of wrath and fear, he remembered fragments of vampyre lore: their strengths, their weaknesses. In that moment, nothing mattered but his own vengeance. Vengeance for his family in Tresta, vengeance for Jamillah who was lost. He would not lose Peruzo as well.

  Leaping to his feet, Marco cried out as he hurled the dagger at the vampyre. It was a wild throw, a crazy throw they might tell him later, but it was lucky. The blade struck dead centre in the back, and the vampyre howled.

  He turned with a look of disbelief. How dare this boy attack him when retribution’s work needed to be done? Did he not know what he was? Who he was? He was Racinet of the Crags. Racinet, third in line to the duchy of. . .

  In a single swift movement, Marco took up Jamillah’s sword and charged. Racinet had not expected this from a boy and was caught in slow suspension as the blade swung about.

  Peruzo saw vaguely what happened next; saw the flash of metal and the head of the vampyre leaping from its neck before a thin spark of light jetted out, followed by tendrils of cyan that writhed in the air. There were unholy screams, the discord of the damned and the calls of the living as the survivors struggled to make sense of the blinding glare, the chaotic pyrotechnics, while the creature burned.

  Peruzo fought to stay awake and aware. Pain racked his body and pounded in his skull. He saw the fires consume the vampyre.

  And then there was darkness.

  VI

  William was running full tilt, with Thomas close behind. The commotion had begun as the guests were leaving the sheikh’s tent. At first the distant screams drew little notice – the noise of children playing beyond their bedtime perhaps, scaring each other. But then the guards ran past.

  We re they under attack?

  William’s feet pounded harder at the sound of the howling. It was unmistakable: a cry like a tortured animal; a vampyre’s raucous shriek. He drew his sword as they bounded in the wake of several Bedouins who were also sprinting towards the corral. There was more commotion now, and light, a pillar of light erupting over the neighs of frightened horses.

  ‘Vampyres!’ he shouted at Thomas, who was struggling to keep up.

  So many expectations and fears filled William in those moments: an attack . . . someone had defeated the vampyre, but at what cost?

  And lastly: Where was Peruzo? Where was Marco?

  When they entered the corral, slowing to weave their way among panicked horses, William’s head whirled in desperation at the sight. In front of him was Marco, bowed fearfully while the bodyguard known as Hisham stood over him holding a scimitar’s blade against his neck.

  ‘No!’ William yelled without thinking. At once the other bodyguards sprang forward, their drawn swords menacing William. Thomas halted in his tracks, his hands in the air.

  William stared at the Bedouin; each had a look of murder in his eyes. The slightest command would turn these sometime allies into his executioners. This was the direst trouble.

  When he saw Peruzo also on his knees, William rated the situation even worse, until he noticed that his lieutenant wasn’t under guard, though badly shaken.

  ‘Captain . . .’ he said, struggling to get to his feet. William moved to help him up.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A vampyre . . .’

  ‘And Marco?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Peruzo replied. ‘I was out cold for a moment. When I came round, the vampyre was burning up.’ The lieutenant pointed to the pile of smoking corruption the others we re shunning fearfully. The stench of rotting meat and sulphur was gagging.

  Thomas stepped forward and stared down at what remained of Racinet. He screwed up his face as he looked away.

  ‘Why do they threaten Marco?’ William said urgently.

  ‘He was holding the girl when I woke,’ Peruzo said, nodding to where a slender figure lay crumpled on the ground, her elegant robe more crimson now than yellow.

  ‘Jamillah . . .’ William gasped, a precarious situation grown steadily worse. His mind raced and he pulled his lieutenant to his feet. ‘Go to Brother Filippo. Tell him to come at once. He can examine you while he’s at it. You don’t look well, my friend.’

  ‘Just groggy . . .’ Peruzo grunted and staggered away.

  ‘Thomas,’ William called, bewildered by the turn of events. The Englishman appeared at his side. ‘I can’t allow this.’

  ‘We have no choice, Captain,’ Thomas said. ‘They blame the boy for her wounds.’

  ‘It was not him,’ William protested.

  ‘It will not matter to them,’ Thomas said. ‘He has her blood on his hands.’

  Then came more shouting from afar, a commotion that sounded terrible yet softened into relieved weeping as a guard appeared carrying a bundle of rags.

  Another death? William thought fearfully.

  The bundle was lowered gently to the ground, and unwrapped from the blood-stained garments came another woman, one who was shaking and weeping. She burst into speech, reaching out for Sheikh Fahd’s sister with a fingerless hand. Then she gestured frantically to Marco, and William’s blood ran cold. In his ignorance, he believed it an accusation: this woman with the ruined hand had sentenced the boy to death. He was about to lose his nephew, and that was something William could not let happen, regardless of the repercussions.

  The bodyguard raised his sword, and William steeled himself, before Thomas’s hand grasped his shoulder. ‘Stop, Captain,’ he said firmly.

  William froze and watched as the bodyguard sheathed his sword and pulled Marco to his feet.

  ‘What . . .?’

  Thomas laughed; it was cold, perhaps bitter, and lost on William. ‘Marco killed the vampyre,’ Thomas said. ‘He saved the sheikh’s sister.’

  William gasped. Marco killed the vampyre? Could it be true?

  The Bedouins lowered their swords as William sheathed his
own and ran to Marco. He took the boy in his arms and held him tight.

  ‘By God, Marco!’ he breathed, his eyes closed. ‘You’ve aged me, boy!’

  Marco hugged his uncle back. ‘I had to save her,’ he cried. ‘I had to, Uncle.’

  ‘I know,’ William murmured, and released him. ‘But you could have been killed.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Marco said truthfully and looked down at Jamillah. Tears were running down his young cheeks as he stared down at the sheikh’s sister, the pallor of her skin. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’

  William could not say ‘Brother Filippo will tend to her, he promised, hoping the monk was on his way.

  VII

  More people did arrive, but the monk was not among them. Instead Sheikh Fahd appeared. He flung himself to the floor and took Jamillah’s body from one of the guards, pushing the man away Fahd was beside himself, cursing in every tongue he knew gesturing to the sky and to the ground with great moans and sobs. His sister looked lifeless, limp in the burly Arab’s arms.

  When Brother Filippo arrived, with Peruzo not far behind, William motioned towards Jamillah. Sheikh Fahd at first could only glare at the monk with contempt and fury causing both Filippo and William to step back.

  ‘Sir, Brother Filippo is a physician. One of the finest,’ William explained. ‘Let him look at her, please.’

  Sheikh Fahd was hesitant, but Brother Filippo looked inoffensive. Looking down at his poor sister, The sheikh groaned for a moment, his once affable expression driven from him. Then he handed her reluctantly to Brother Filippo, who laid her gently upon the sand.

  For many minutes, too many for those apprehensive men, the Ayaida prayed to Allah for Jamillah’s deliverance, while Filippo trusted not in God but in his own skills as a physician. The first moment of relief came after the monk roused her with a phial held under her nose and signalled to all that she was still alive. Yet her pale complexion and the thickness of blood on her dress did not bode well.

  Finally Filippo gestured to Marco, who wavered at first, but then came over. He spoke a few words and Marco gathered her up in his arms. ‘We need to move her to a tent,’ Filippo said to William.