The Hoard of Mhorrer

by M. F. W. Curran

  William asked the sheikh and they were allowed to follow Hisham to one of the harem’s tents, leaving Sheikh Fahd to stand and shiver in the chill of night.

  ‘Will she live?’ he asked William.

  ‘Brother Filippo is her only hope,’ he replied.

  ‘That is not an answer, Captain Saxon,’ Sheikh Fahd seethed.

  ‘I know little of her condition, only that she is badly wounded,’ William admitted. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Sheikh Fahd shook his head. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for. I am in your debt,’ he said. ‘And in your nephew’s debt. He saved her life.’

  William could only agree. Marco was a hero. By morning everyone would know this. And by morning William would have little choice but to take the fearless young vampyre-killer to the Valley of Fire, despite every warning in his soul. Marco had earned it.

  Sheikh Fahd retired, the bodyguards moving after him in procession. If these Bedouins had a judgement on this evening, it was not offered. William wished that he knew right now what they all thought, both of his company, and of the war he had dragged them into. Would they be enraged and bring more men? Or would William and the company be blamed for the attack, for the wounding and maybe the death of the sheikh’s beloved sister?

  Part of him believed the fault was his, just as it was his fault that Thomas’s entourage had been attacked by vampyres, the militia at the oasis almost slaughtered, and Marco brought close to execution after saving Jamillah’s life. William had brought them all here, into his own little war with Count Ordrane of Draak.

  ‘A dark business,’ William found himself murmuring to no one as his thoughts rambled. Only Peruzo and Thomas remained near the corral.

  ‘You should get some rest, Lieutenant,’ William suggested, noting the drained look in Peruzo’s eyes.

  The lieutenant agreed, too tired to argue, and rose shakily to his feet again, lurching away into the shadows, making for the company’s tents at the edge of the camp.

  Thomas stared down again at the scraps of rag, the ash dispersed and trampled by the numbers of Ayaida who had rushed to the scene. The vampyre’s remains had been kicked about, reduced to dust for horses to tread on. Even his burnt clothes were strewn like rags. The half-moon flail lay a few feet away, half buried in the sand.

  ‘Just one vampyre,’ William said to him. ‘The prisoner at the oasis said there were two.’

  ‘Yes,’ Thomas said distantly.

  ‘I see you are wondering as I do,’ William whispered. ‘Why only one vampyre attacked, and what has happened to the other.’ William patted Thomas comfortingly on the shoulder and then followed Peruzo, pausing to pick up the vampyre’s flail on the way back to their tent.

  Thomas watched William until he disappeared behind the pavilions and their shadows. He shivered in the cold, as he looked out to the horizon. Thomas did wonder why just the one vampyre had attacked, and indeed why it had attacked at all.

  But not for the same reasons as William.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Myths from the Fire

  I

  Like any boy his age, any boy with a half-formed perception of devotion and responsibility Marco intended to stand his ground all night by Jamillah’s tent, and would have done so if not for William. It took the promise of allowing Marco to accompany him to the Valley of Fire to coax the boy from his vigil. Even then, Marco slept little, pacing outside their tent, or watching the stars as though some sign of Jamillah’s fate would be unveiled.

  Brother Filippo had tended her for several hours. He sewed up her wound, applied some of Villeda’s finest ointments to salve it, and brewed a herbal tea to cope with her fever. When eventually the colour returned to her cheeks, relief ran all through the camp.

  ‘Can I see her?’ Marco asked early that morning.

  Brother Filippo, somewhat fatigued himself, shooed the boy away ‘She needs to rest’ he said, stifling a yawn.

  ‘I want to speak to her’

  Brother Filippo indicated Hisham, who barred the way. ‘These people have their customs. You might have saved her life, but it is not yours to order, it is theirs. They are Ayaida and you are but a boy from Villeda. Return later.’

  Marco looked over Brother Filippo’s shoulder, the desire to see her almost too great to restrain.

  ‘Marco,’ said the monk, taking his shoulders, ‘you did a great thing last night. You are a hero. Yet soon we may be leaving this place for ever. Take comfort that you have saved a life and be grateful for that.’

  Marco sagged but he understood. If they did return, he would see her. If they did return he would be with her, and he vowed to become so brave a man that even Sheikh Fahd would not refuse him.

  William roused the brothers as the first threads of dawn warmed the gully. Despite their maltreatment at the hands of the militia, they readied themselves quickly, reunited with their Baker rifles, weapons they had sorely missed in the battle at Bastet. Many of the brothers appeared refreshed following a decent night’s sleep and with good food and drink in their bellies.

  William visited the brothers too wounded and battered to ride. Some protested and insisted they were well enough to serve. William did not relent, but offered them a chance of heroism: to help to protect the Ayaida while they were away. There was, after all, ‘still a vampyre loose in the desert’.

  With Jamillah mending, Sheikh Fahd appeared purposeful and urgent. Earlier that morning he had convened a meeting with the tribal elders, who had blessed him and the battle ahead. For Fahd, the vampyres and the Rassis were one and the same. The destruction of the Rassis would lift the peril from the Ayaida, especially his sister, as well as satisfy his vengeance. He did not delay rousing his men, and the seven hundred were mounted and ready to travel as quickly as William’s monks.

  As the sun rose a quarter up into the blue sky, The long column of Bedouins and monks left the camp. Most had their minds on what might lie ahead. Marco looked back through the clouds of churned-up dust to the harem in the centre of the camp and the woman who lay there.

  II

  By the end of the first day the army had cleared the beige-coloured wastes of Bir Gifgafa. On the second day the extra riders promised by Anwar and Galal finally arrived, their appearance marked by a broad bank of rolling dust as hundreds of horses lined up on the plains of Yalliq just in front of the sandstone and limestone mountain that shimmered in a midday haze.

  The Suwarka appeared soon after the Tarabin and Aquila Bedouins, the six hundred riders galloping through the pass of Ain-Heim dragging several carts, and behind them three cannon. Sheikh Mazin galloped down the line, not to embrace his men as Galal and Anwar had, but to berate his eldest son for bringing the tribe’s artillery with them.

  William hung back with Thomas, and both began to laugh as Mazin chased his son around on horseback, the former yelling abuse, the latter cowed and in full flight.

  ‘So Mazin brings his cannon,’ Sheikh Fahd said, quite pleased.

  ‘As I recall, you said they would not shoot straight,’ William remarked.

  ‘So I did,’ Sheikh Fahd replied, ‘but at least it will provide the proper noise for the encounter. What is a battle, Captain Saxon, without cannon?’

  ‘As long as Mazin doesn’t fire on us, they might be of some use,’ William said.

  ‘Then we will be sure to let the Suwarka charge first, Captain Saxon,’ Sheikh Fahd said, and chuckled as they watched the Suwarka join the long column of Bedouin riders.

  The allies of the Ayaida brought much celebration from Sheikh Fahd’s men and gave great hope to the company of armed monks; it was now truly an army, and William’s confidence was rekindled for the long journey ahead.

  The hours of riding through fractured landscapes of barren rock and over vast plains of scorching desert blurred and merged the following days together. Only the cold of night could call a halt to that urgent drive into the heart of the Sinai; then there was time to speak with Thomas about matters other than their immediate mission,
the pleasures of a merchant’s life. His friendship with Thomas invigorated him, a reminder of how much there was that lay outside the clandestine conflict between Heaven and Hell. There was a life back in England. In the ignorance of the outside world, there was the chance to be happy to aspire, achieve, gossip, even to take leisure.

  When he began once again to write that difficult letter home to his father, mother and Lizzy at Fairway Hall, it came surprisingly easily, in a torrent of blurred facts and credible fictions. There were lies in that letter, yes, but only because William believed in them, only because he wanted them to be true. On the third night of writing, with the letter almost complete, he realized that his ardour for the War had waned. He wanted to be back with his family in England, and was ready to start a new life with Adriana.

  If, that is, he survived the mission.

  III

  Four days out and Sheikh Fahd announced to William they had passed into the El-Tih highlands and were taking the hidden roads to the foot of Gebel Musa, and the Monastery of St Catherine.

  Despite their progress, conditions were growing ever more severe. The brothers’ remaining wagon was battered but intact. Not so with Mazin’s wagons. Of the four carts, one fell down a gully in a rock slide while another’s wheels buckled twice under the strain of travelling narrow paths and rocky gorges. Had it not been for the wheelwright skills of several brothers, the Suwarka would have lost the cart and its cannon by the end of the first day through the highlands.

  On the fifth day, the heat in the highlands rose and water was running short amongst the monks of the Order. Even the Bedouins, masters of conserving water, were flagging. On the sixth night, Sheikh Fahd appeared unusually subdued when he invited William to eat with him in his grand pavilion that had burdened the camels riding at the centre of the army.

  ‘We must find an oasis,’ he confided as a wind grew about them, howling through the gaps in the mountains and down the passes, causing the walls of the tent to billow and the lamp-flames to flicker and waver. ‘There are smaller wells in these mountains, but it would take a day to change direction and seek them.’

  ‘An extra day?’ William said. ‘Time is everything, sir.’

  ‘So is surviving, Captain Saxon,’ Sheikh Fahd reminded him.

  ‘Are there alternatives?’

  ‘To dying?’ Sheikh Fahd laughed humourlessly. ‘We could head for Ain Umm Ahmed.’

  William frowned.

  ‘It is an oasis. One of the largest in this region. But other Bedouin tribes use that area. Tribes that are often hostile.’

  ‘Hostile against two and a half thousand men?’

  ‘Even then,’ Sheikh Fahd admitted. ‘They would see our army as an invading force. They would not tolerate us.’

  ‘Then it is a risk,’ William admitted. ‘But a warranted one.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Sheikh Fahd replied. ‘Tomorrow we will head east towards Wadi el-Ain. There we will drink and feed. After that, I am not sure when we’ll find another place to rest. This land has a stone heart. And it will betray us with thirst and hunger. I will pray to Allah that we find the Valley of Fire soon, Captain Saxon.’

  ‘What about this monastery?’ William asked.

  ‘St Catherine?’ the sheikh said. ‘Why would you wish to go there?’

  ‘You said St Catherine was visited by Charles Greynell,’ William said. Sheikh Fahd nodded. ‘Then it lies not far away from the Valley of Fire?’

  ‘We do not need directions to the Valley, Captain,’ Sheikh Fahd said.

  ‘No,’ William agreed, ‘but we need a place to rest before we assault the Rassis. And I would like some information. Maybe those who live at the monastery can tell us more about the Rassis Cult.’

  What more could you wish to know?’

  ‘A friend once told me the Rassis are cunning and strong. A good soldier will learn about his enemy before he engages it. I just want to know whether they are desperate men or cold killers.’

  ‘Does it matter so much which they are?’ Sheikh Fahd asked.

  ‘If they are desperate, they will fight to the last and offer no mercy because they believe they will receive none themselves. And if they are cold killers, then they will slaughter all of us if they can.’

  Sheikh Fahd began to laugh. ‘As I said, it does not matter so much! We are doomed either way, my friend.’

  William smiled and then grew serious again.

  ‘Do you fear them, Captain Saxon?’ Sheikh Fahd asked, noticing William’s solemn expression.

  ‘I do not fear the Rassis, sir. But I fear the consequences should we fail,’ William replied and then wrapped his arms about himself as the winds outside blew stronger.

  IV

  The track heading to Wadi el-Ain was narrow and snaked around shattered mountains and mammoth chunks of rust-coloured rock. It was littered with boulders and smaller stones which made the going strenuous. For almost a mile of track, the going was so poor that the wagons threatened to slide from the side of the mountain into the gully below impeding their progress and slowing the army to a crawl. Amongst the wasteland there were spots of green, but little lush vegetation, just golden scree and brown rock with tufts of weeds daring to peek from clefts in the hard terrain.

  The brothers’ mouths grew parched. Their jackets were no longer the grey of the Order, but the colour of the dust and rock about them; their faces rough and gaunt, as if the journey’s few days had aged them. Even the Bedouins whose land this was looked relieved when they made the oasis of Ain Umm Ahmed before sunset. The leading riders leapt from their horses and ran to the pool’s edge laughing and jostling to sip from the water and fill their skins, but they were quick to make room for those behind them.

  With so many thirsty men, William was impressed by their discipline. He allowed the monks to drink their fill, then dismounted and led his horse to the water to drink while he filled his own water-skin. Marco knelt by him and did the same, accepting the wait as he had accepted the hardships of the journey. William was proud of him. Any remnants of his former petulance had been shed along the way. Marco had suffered like the others without a word of complaint.

  ‘Easy,’ William warned, as he took great gulps from his water-skin. ‘Don’t drink so quickly. You could choke. Take small sips, like this . . .’

  Marco watched and nodded, sipping as his uncle did.

  Thomas sat in the saddle while Hammid filled both their skins of water, keeping away from the rest of the Bedouins and monks. He handed one skin up to Thomas and then sat in the shade to sip from his own.

  William came over. ‘Well, we have water,’ he said.

  ‘But there is a cost?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘Two days’ travel. I fear we will not arrive at St Catherine for another three days.’

  ‘Three days of this?’ Thomas looked bewildered. ‘Perhaps I should have stayed at the Ayaida camp.’

  William ignored him. It had been Thomas’s choice to join them after all. ‘When we reach St Catherine you can stay there until we return. The monastery should have lodgings of some sort’

  Thomas brightened and stretched his aching arms. ‘That is appealing. And yet I think I’ll continue with you to the Valley of Fire.’

  ‘If that is your wish,’ William said, secretly thankful.

  ‘It is, Captain. It is,’ Thomas insisted as they made their way to the circle of tents.

  V

  After two more days of hard riding, they sighted St Catherine’s monastery. The army journeyed down a valley Sheikh Fahd called ‘The Plain of el-Raha’ – a vast expanse of tanned stone and sand that stretched from one rocky crag to the other, giant broken mountains walling in the plain. The floor was bare of life. The vision of civilization squatting amid this wilderness came as a relief.

  The chatter amongst Sheikh Fahd’s men grew as they neared the walls of the monastery William knew by the sheikh’s description that the monastery housed Greek Orthodox priests, yet he felt confident they would not turn away even an arm
y of well-intentioned Arabs such as these.

  Even so, he felt the need for caution as they came within half a mile of the monastery He signalled for the monks to halt and Sheikh Fahd’s hundreds of riders followed his lead.

  ‘Is something wrong, Captain?’ Sheikh Fahd asked.

  ‘An army of this size might be intimidating,’ William told him. ‘Should the monks of St Catherine see two and a half thousand Bedouins descend towards them, they might lock their gates against us. Or those guards there on the wall might shoot down at us.’

  Sheikh Fahd looked to the soldiers William referred to, tall shapes clustered at intervals along the wall, some dashing between towers. ‘If I looked upon this magnificent army, I too would take fright. The monastery has suffered small attacks from bandits over the years. It would be a crime against Allah should a battle occur between us over a misunderstanding.’

  ‘I will go alone with several monks. We will pave the way forward. Just wait for me,’ William suggested.

  ‘I will come with you,’ Sheikh Fahd told him.

  ‘You do not trust me?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sheikh Fahd replied. ‘I am simply curious.’

  William picked five men to ride with him, leaving Peruzo in command. Sheikh Fahd took Hisham and two bodyguards. As they rode nearer, William spied the soldiers high on the walls. They were armed with rifles, and there was little cover on the approach to the monastery; a well-trained guard could pick them off quite easily.

  About forty yards from the walls, They slowed their approach. ‘We should draw near gradually, so that they can see who we are. That we mean no harm.’ As the formidable walls loomed higher, William felt apprehensive. ‘I just hope these men understand Latin,’ he added more to himself.

  ‘They are Greek,’ Sheikh Fahd reminded him. ‘Do you speak Greek?’

  ‘No. Do you?’ William replied, foreseeing a major problem.

  Sheikh Fahd shook his head and laughed.