‘We will not fail,’ Peruzo assured him, ‘because you are still here to lead us.’
III
The day slipped by in endless hours of trotting down dusty tracks, now in shadow and then blazing sunlight. Marco dabbed at his face with his shirtsleeve, the sweat pouring off him; he went to his water-skin again.
‘Slow down,’ Jericho said by his side. ‘Don’t drink it all at once. No one has said where the next oasis is.’
‘Have you done this before? Travelled in the desert?’ Marco asked after taking a very small sip that did little more than wet his lips.
Jericho shook his head. ‘My first mission was to Vienna,’ he said. ‘The brothers around me have been to Spain, and some to other barren places. I’m not enjoying it much. I don’t like the heat or the sand.’
Marco could only agree. He too disliked the endless, joyless rides and the intense warmth of the open. So far it wasn’t like the adventures he had dreamt of. There were no moments of heroism, nor moments of honour, just small skirmishes in the dark where men would fall screaming and bloodied.
Killing the vampyre had been a nasty business; chaotic and far from heroic as the monks believed. It had happened suddenly, blindly, and Marco could only think of Jamillah – Jamillah who was killed whenever the moment was replayed in his dreams. Always in his dreams the vampyre would gut her in front of him, leaving Marco to sob uncontrollably.
At times he woke believing it to be true, and only once fully awake did he remember Jamillah still lived. That he had saved her life.
The sun began to set again, gliding down the back of the world until the horizon pulled it beneath the golden rocks. Marco started to shiver, yet he remained quiet until they rested at the foot of the mountains, the twilight quiet and eerie.
Even the Bedouins were unusually peaceful, their horses subdued.
Marco dismounted and his eyes followed his uncle as he strolled up to Thomas, who was lowering Hammid down from his horse. ‘Another night under the stars, Captain,’ Thomas said to him as he slipped out of the saddle and landed on the dusty ground.
William shrugged. ‘Tonight feels different.’
‘Is it expectation?’ Thomas ventured, with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.
‘Perhaps. You appear in good spirits.’
Thomas’s smile broadened. ‘Maybe this life of excitement is the life I should pursue. Maybe I should return with you to Rome,’ he replied.
Thomas had suggested as much before, that he would renounce the merchant’s life for something far nobler, and William assured him he would say a few good words about the Englishman on their arrival at the Vatican. But William had reservations too, and part of him wished to warn Thomas off this course of action. Over the last day’s riding and talking, William had come to believe more and more that he should not stay in the Order of Saint Sallian. That it was time to leave. And how could he encourage the Englishman in a career that had lost its savour?
Marco stood some way away from their conversation, but he watched. He didn’t know why, but he had an odd feeling about Thomas Richmond. Maybe it was nothing, but the man’s true face was appearing gradually, like skin being peeled from an orange.
And his servant, the one they called Hammid, was looking sicker and sicker.
Yes, Marco thought to himself, something felt quite wrong.
IV
The next day the landscape that had been flat or gradual now grew steep and severe. The sides of the mountains were steep walls of rock where no one could climb and no path meandered. Perhaps it was the heat, perhaps the brightness of the sun, but it sometimes appeared to William as though the walls of the valleys were closing in on them, shutting them into an eternal prison of red dust and brown rock. It was oppressive and the gaunt expressions of the riders grew fear creeping into the hardest of faces as the Bedouins continued, quicker than usual, across the dry river beds and wadis.
As the day crept on, word came to William about a problem with Mazin’s men. The Suwarka were struggling a mile or so down the line after one of the wagons had shed a wheel again, and a cannon had broken loose, rolling to the foot of a bank of scree. Mazin’s riders had effectively cut themselves in half, three hundred staying with the cannon to pull it out, while the other three hundred rode on under Mazin. The sheikh’s son had been told to remain with the cannon as punishment.
The news did not please Sheikh Fahd, nor did it please William, and both agreed that they had to continue on to the Valley of Fire without them.
After this bad news, there was some relief in the late afternoon when the army climbed the saddle from one wadi, and from the top of the ridge they sighted trees and green grass.
‘The Oasis of Amin Dahir,’ Sheikh Fahd said and gestured.
William rode up to him, the three sheikhs, Anwar, Galal and Mazin, not far behind. ‘They say it fills with water once every four years,’ Fahd remarked, ‘and then turns to dust for the other three’
‘We appear to be lucky,’ William said.
‘Lucky, Captain Saxon? No, it is a miracle. In this time of drought, Allah is merciful,’ Fahd said. The sheikh said something to Anwar, Galal and Mazin, and all three murmured in agreement.
‘They think it is you who has brought the miracle, Captain Saxon,’ Sheikh Fahd said. ‘It shows that Allah approves our cause.’
William nodded. ‘Let us hope more miracles befall us, sir.’
All talk of miracles was forgotten as they came within one hundred yards of the first trees. The riders at the head of the army had halted, and started shouting. Instantly William rode along the line with two brothers by his side, armed with their Baker rifles. Marco watched his uncle gallop away, cupping his hand over his eyes. Thomas made a move to ride forward, but Peruzo signalled him to stay. The lieutenant then glanced at Marco, and his expression was obvious: he shared Marco’s distrust of the merchant and his servant.
William halted at the head of the column where Sheikh Fahd and his bodyguard, Hisham, were circling some object rammed into the rocky floor. It was a post, a notice of sorts, and William approached cautiously.
The sign was seven feet high, carved from a trunk of wood that had been eaten from within by insects so it appeared like rotten bone. There was a slat nailed across it, and at the top perched an ancient russet-coloured skull, a spearhead driven through its crown to hold it there for all eternity.
‘A warning?’ Sheikh Fahd chanced.
William leant closer, examining the head. He reached out and tapped it with his sword hilt. To the riders’ dismay the jawbone crumbled and fell, joining the dust on the ground.
‘It is old,’ William deduced. ‘Whoever this was, died a long time ago.’
‘And these symbols?’ Sheikh Fahd asked, pointing to the slat of wood nailed across the trunk.
William looked down. They were letters he could not read, like little pictures of lines and boxes, waves and other such iconography. The waves reminded him of the tattoos the kafalas scarred themselves with, emblems of rank in the Count’s army: three waves were one step removed from being turned into a vampyre.
As William glanced at each symbol he rubbed at his temple with recognition. There was something here that felt familiar.
‘I’ve seen such symbols before,’ he said finally.
‘Where?’
‘One of the tutors in my Order, Master Yu, writes similar symbols. These are words,’ William said, and pointed to them. ‘Words from the East.’
Sheikh Fahd reached over and ran his fingertips along the lines, much to the clamour of the other riders who feared he was calling a curse upon himself. ‘These men of the East, what are they like?’ he asked.
‘They are fierce warriors,’ William replied. ‘They fight differently than any other race. And they are very, very dangerous.’
Sheikh Fahd noted the caution in his voice.
‘If the Rassis are men from the East, or at least trained in the same manner, The combat will go hard,’ William said. ‘Easte
rn men train in the art of fighting. They call it the Martial Art. I too have trained in the basic skills of this art, yet I confess I know only the skin, not the flesh and blood beneath it.’
Sheikh Fahd laughed. ‘We have an army. You worry too much.’
‘I hope you’re right, sir,’ William replied.
Beyond the sign, William ordered his men to reconnoitre for a mile in each direction while Sheikh Fahd sent a few of his own riders, commanded by Hisham, up the steep slopes of the mountains. This caution cost them two hours, but William knew ambush country when he saw it. They were close to the Valley of Fire, and not too far away from where Sheikh Fahd’s brother had run into trouble.
As the afternoon waned and evening set in, most of the scouts returned and William conferred with the sheikhs. With the Rassis so near, William thought they were susceptible to attack. The Valley of Fire was less than a day’s ride away, yet the sheikhs were arrogant and tired. For them the oasis made the perfect place to rest before battle. Even Sheikh Fahd relented, though he secretly shared William’s concerns. They could not see the danger they were in, and William could only convince them to post sentries along the bluffs, while ensuring that a state of vigilance was maintained.
As the army rested and fed, the oasis suddenly became a thriving community. Tents were erected, water flowed and food was consumed in preparation for what lay ahead. The mood was subdued at first, but the idea of battle seemed to galvanize the Bedouins; songs were sung, and tall tales were passed around the fire.
The monks were more restrained than their allies, meditating at times, or talking amongst each other quietly. With the exception of Marco and Jericho, each monk had long experience of battle and each had his own routines before the coming day.
William marshalled what he knew for a while, then in the peace of his tent he smoothed a patch of sand and began to draw what he expected from the battle to come. He stared down with a strategist’s eye, assessing the enemy’s choices. Could he starve them out? Time said he couldn’t, nor did he expect that an army of less than five thousand men could contain the Rassis. Then there were Mazin’s cannons, still stranded down the road. They had not been seen since midday, and William wondered if they would come at all. Despite Fahd’s teasing, the cannon would have been a useful addition to the army. They could have pounded the enemy positions at long range – enough to soften them up for a cavalry charge. But even then William wasn’t certain if cannons would be enough.
Do not underestimate the cult of the Rassis. They are cunning. They are strong. They have been fighting this war longer than you.
Even though Kieran had said little, it was enough to make William think hard about the strategy ahead. He must not include the Dar’uka. Whether the ‘angels’ would come, as Peruzo and the brothers hoped, William could not guess. As he had remarked in the past, the Dar’uka had never intervened by request, only when it suited them.
Yet despite his pride, despite everything in his soul that warned against hope, William joined his hands in silent prayer. And prayed for deliverance from the Rassis.
V
Marco squatted in their tent, re-splicing the hilt of his sword. His sparring lessons with Peruzo had finished half an hour before and there was a slight bruise blossoming above his right eyebrow.
William laughed. ‘So Peruzo caught you with his back-swing, did he?’
Marco winced sheepishly.
‘He used to catch me off guard with that one as well,’ William said, and lay back on his mat. He rolled over onto his side and regarded Marco. ‘You need to bend when he comes at you. When your opponent faces you like that, you must know he will strike you with his back to you. He uses the momentum to turn, to bring his blow against you. So dive down and then strike forward. Jab him in the ribs, or bend to the side and strike low. Always be sure that he will strike at you in an arc, his momentum and balance allow him nothing else’
Marco nodded and imagined how the sparring might have gone if he had done as his uncle suggested. ‘He would have missed me. He would have struck only air’ he said, and began to wave his hand, moving an imaginary sword in his fingers as he stroked it about, parrying and striking.
William watched him for a few moments, and then realized that their tent was one man short. ‘Where is Thomas?’
‘Taking a bath,’ Marco replied.
‘Again?’ William was amazed. ‘How many baths a day does that man take?’
‘Only one, Uncle,’ Marco said. ‘He didn’t bathe with us.’
The Englishman had yet to take his bath with the rest of the monks, and William respected his privacy. But then he recalled their precarious surroundings and got to his feet. ‘Did he take an escort?’ he said quickly.
Marco looked up, surprised by William’s urgency. ‘No, Uncle.’
‘He should not be wandering this oasis alone. Not now. We could be ambushed at any moment, Thomas would not know what to do,’ William considered.
‘I could find him,’ Marco suggested. ‘I could ask him to return’
William nodded. ‘Very well. Take two brothers with you though,’ he said.
VI
Brother Jericho agreed to go with Marco, while Brother Lucas felt the need to stretch his legs and so tagged along as they strolled from the outskirts of the camp and made their way towards the thick bank of reeds and boulders at the side of the water. The two monks argued about something that Marco understood little about, a place called the Carpathians and a great fortress that lay there. And while they spoke of names and places he knew nothing of nor cared about, Marco thought about Jamillah.
‘If the Order assaulted the Fortress of Draak, we would be expelled from the Church,’ Brother Lucas said to Jericho, their conversation growing heated.
Brother Jericho sighed in disagreement, not even noticing that Marco had halted at the edge of the reeds. He almost cannoned into him, and turned to glower at Brother Lucas. ‘At least this war would be over.’
Brother Lucas scoffed. ‘Don’t be naïve, Jericho. This war won’t end in our lifetime.’
Marco put up a hand and both men fell silent. They could hear splashing somewhere, The sounds of bathing or swimming. Marco glanced at the two monks. Jericho’s arms were crossed and he was shaking his head. ‘I don’t understand his hesitancy on behalf of the Church. Can you, Marco?’
Marco just shrugged.
‘I think you should talk to Engrin,’ Brother Lucas said. ‘He has a great way of explaining things.’
‘Engrin?’ Jericho said. ‘That old man?’
‘A great man,’ Brother Lucas corrected and then glanced at Marco, remembering why he was standing there. ‘Why don’t you look for the Englishman, Marco. I need to talk some sense into Brother Jericho.’
Brother Jericho laughed out loud. ‘You can try!’ he teased. ‘So tell me . . .’
Marco ignored them both and walked through waist-high reeds towards the boulders that screened the shore from the camp. He picked his way along a small track, the tips of the reeds spiking his legs through the thin fabric of his trousers.
When he got to the rocks, he squeezed between two, climbed a third and jumped from the top to land in more reeds beneath. From there he could see across the oasis to the small row of trees along the far bank. Below, swimming in the water, was Thomas Richmond’s pink outline. Marco walked down to the bank, passing the neat pile of clothes on the sand, and shouted out to him.
At first Thomas did not notice him. And then as he stood up in the water, Marco shouted again, before a hand appeared at his mouth and halted him quickly. It was quick, but the grip was weak, and Marco used his instincts as his uncle had taught him, and drove his elbow up into the chest cavity of his attacker.
The hand fell away with a groan of pain, and Marco turned with his hand raised to discover Hammid, now doubled up and gasping.
‘Enough!’ Thomas shouted and Marco turned about. The Englishman stood naked in the water, his eyes blazing with anger, his left hand coveri
ng his right shoulder. He stormed up to the bank, water dripping from his chest hair and beard, a look of fury on his face.
Hammid struggled to his feet and was almost sick. He rubbed at his stomach and started to whine.
‘Pathetic little man.’ Thomas glowered at his servant and snatched his shirt from the pile of clothes, pulling it on quickly before drying himself, so that the white shirt was instantly wet.
‘You, boy, are trouble!’ Thomas growled at Marco as he dressed. ‘Your uncle needs to discipline you.’
Marco was struck scared. He didn’t know whether to run or stay.
‘Come with me!’ Thomas said as he marched over to Marco, his shirt half outside his breeches, Hammid moving awkwardly behind him, still holding his stomach. Marco stood by as calmly as he could, but then flinched as Thomas took his arm and tugged him close.
‘Spy on me, will you?’ he snarled in William’s language, yet there was no familiar compassion in the words, just a cold, threatening tone. Thomas pulled Marco along by the arm, through the reeds and around the rocks. Marco stumbled a few times, once to his knees, before being hauled up again.
He slipped once more, but he regained his footing and as he did so he wriggled free from Thomas’s grasp and stepped away from him. ‘I have done nothing wrong!’ he shouted defiantly.
Thomas glowered at Marco, his eyes incandescent with rage. Marco retreated, then froze as he backed into someone. A pair of gentle hands grasped his shoulders, and by his ear he heard: ‘Is something wrong, Marco?’
Marco turned around, relieved to find Jericho standing there. The monk appeared cautious as he stared back at the Englishman, who was composing himself. Brother Lucas was nearby and looked on with interest.
The Englishman slipped the hem of his shirt into his breeches and gave them a dazzling smile. ‘And I suppose neither of you understand a word I say?’ he said sarcastically.
The monks remained silent.
‘No. Of course not. Just the language of the Roman Catholic Church. How quaint,’ Thomas added. The dazzling smile broadened and he pointed at Marco, then gestured at his own eyes and nodded.
The Hoard of Mhorrer Page 34