The Hoard of Mhorrer

by M. F. W. Curran

  Marco flinched. There was no humour in what Thomas had just done. The Englishman clucked something to the pained Hammid and both began to walk away.

  ‘What was that about, Marco?’ Brother Jericho asked.

  Marco didn’t reply but watched Thomas leave the oasis for the ring of tents fifty yards or so away.

  ‘I don’t like him,’ Brother Jericho confided to Marco, feeling the boy’s shoulders tense under his fingers. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing amiss?’

  Marco nodded. ‘I’m fine,’ he insisted.

  ‘We should return,’ Brother Lucas said.

  They walked back to the camp in silence and Marco rubbed at his arm where Thomas had gripped him. What had he done? Had he seen something? He continued to rub at his arm and then something began to surface, a sudden gesture . . . Marco frowned as he thought about it some more, Brother Jericho walking just in front of him while Brother Lucas hung back, looking up at the darkening sky and the birds wheeling above, reluctant to argue again with the combative Jericho.

  Marco was so engrossed in what the Englishman had been hiding that the distant twanging sound was lost on him. There was a sudden thunk and then a cry, and both Jericho and Marco turned to find Brother Lucas with an arrow in his side.

  Brother Jericho stopped in his tracks and watched as the monk fell to his knees in the reeds, his face contorted in pain, then fell backwards and vanished under the tall yellowing stems.

  ‘Lucas?’ Brother Jericho called out, bewildered. He took a step forward and Marco heard a whistling noise. By instinct he pushed Jericho aside, and both of them toppled and rolled, Marco to the right, Jericho to the left. The arrow struck the ground a foot away and cartwheeled into the reeds.

  Brother Jericho swore as he lay face-down in the dust, his first proper curse in some years. Another shaft flew past their heads and buried itself in the ground a yard away as Marco tried to struggle to his feet.

  ‘Stay down dammit!’ Jericho yelled at him. ‘We’re under fire!’

  His hands reached for Marco across the dusty ground; he tasted the grime in the air, and breathed it in – a musty, acrid smell. Marco did not see him, and slipped away to a boulder that was no bigger than he was. He lay with his back against it, panting as another arrow whistled between them and just missed Jericho’s fingers. The monk retracted his hand at the last moment, feeling the air part close to his fingertips. He rolled frantically away, pursued by a volley that hit the floor inches from each roll until he flopped into a narrow wadi. There he lay flat as arrows smacked against the opposite bank, raising a spurt of dust with every strike.

  He rolled onto his front and raised his head. ‘Ambush!’ he bellowed. ‘AMBUSH!’ He hoped his words would travel, and he almost tried again, before another series of twangs made him flatten himself again. Several more arrows hit the ground, one catching his sleeve. The arrowhead ripped cloth and nicked hairs but missed the skin. Pulling it free, Jericho rolled back over and began shouting once more. ‘SOUND THE ALARM! AMBUSH! AMBUSH!’

  At the edge of the camp he saw several Bedouins emerge from their tents. One stepped forward and cupped his hand over his brow. Jericho shouted to them, but arrows hissed from nowhere and the Bedouins fell to the ground with muffled cries.

  ‘No!’ Jericho shouted desperately, fearing that they all were dead or dying.

  Yet one survivor rose, an arrow protruding from his shoulder, staring down bewildered at the shaft as though it shouldn’t be there. Then, and slowly, he started to lurch away calling out as he did so. Jericho heard commotion spread like a beehive disturbed, and men came streaming out of their tents, grabbing their weapons, questioning or commanding. The camp was roused. He could lie back thankful. Footsteps to the right. ‘Look right, Marco, they’re coming!’ he called over to the boy who lay huddled against the wall of his sheltering rock.

  Jericho yelled louder. ‘Lucas? Brother Lucas?’

  Brother Lucas tried to speak but could only cough and utter a high groan of pain. An arrow thwacked too close in the dirt. ‘Marco, we need to move!’ Jericho shouted. ‘I have to get you back to camp!’

  ‘But Brother Lucas . . .!’ Marco shouted back.

  ‘Brother Lucas understands, Marco. You are my captain’s nephew’

  Marco shook his head and turned over onto his knees, facing away.

  ‘Wait! Marco, don’t try it!’ Jericho shouted, seeing the boy’s intention. ‘You’ll never . . .’, but Marco had sprung from cover and dived into the reeds beyond. Jericho stood up to follow and another arrow flew his way. It plucked at the heel of his boot, but he was rolling along the ground, the dust of his impact screening him from the unseen archers. When their next volley blocked his path to Marco’s rock, he turned about and sprinted in the opposite direction, zigzagging his way to the tents before throwing himself face-down into a ditch near the perimeter, mere feet away from where those several Bedouins lay bleeding or dead.

  VII

  William bolted with his scabbard clutched in his hand, the belt smacking against his legs as he hurdled tent-ropes to reach the wagon where the greyjackets stood, loading their Baker rifles in its cover. Peruzo waved him over and William slid to a halt in the dust, ducking as another arrow fell among them.

  ‘They have our range,’ Peruzo growled.

  William followed the lieutenant’s gesture towards the mountainside to the right of the camp. It was jagged, rocky, with many ridges, and alcoves a man could hide in.

  ‘Pin them down as best you can. Fire into the shadows. Maybe we’ll get lucky,’ William ordered as he made to move away.

  ‘And you?’ Peruzo asked, surprised that William should part from them now.

  ‘I need to see Sheikh Fahd,’ William said and left them quickly, stepping past a sobbing Bedouin who was screaming whenever his friend tried to pull the long thick arrow from a wound in his thigh. Blood had spilt across the sand.

  Sheikh Fahd marched with purpose through the camp with Hisham at his side. William hurried his pace and intercepted the sheikh before he could make for the horses.

  ‘You were right, my friend,’ Fahd conceded. ‘It is a trap. They’re firing from the mountains. My scouts have seen them, Captain. Sheikh Mazin’s men are going up there, look . . .’

  William turned to see the Suwarka gather towards the base of the slope. A shower of arrows flew and some fell screaming.

  ‘They’ll be cut down!’ William exclaimed. ‘Surely they don’t expect to assault head-on? It’s too steep, and they’ll see them coming.’

  Sheikh Fahd shrugged. ‘The Suwarka will do what they wish, Captain Saxon. Mazin has lost control of them. It is his son they follow. Mazin has no eye for battle.’

  ‘We must pull them back,’ William pleaded.

  ‘It can’t be done. Do you see? Now Sheikh Anwar is attacking, and he is impetuous, a lot like your nephew I think,’ Sheikh Fahd observed.

  William groaned out loud. In the confusion he had forgotten Marco.

  . . . Marco, whom he’d sent to find Thomas.

  He didn’t even try to stop Sheikh Fahd now, but reeled away, moving faster with the knowledge that Marco was out in the open, and Thomas too. His heart pounded harder as he fought to subdue his fears for Marco, but his path took him stumbling through chaos. The camp was in panic. Arrows kept falling sporadically amongst the tents. Now and then one would skewer a scrambling target.

  William returned to Peruzo’s side. ‘We can’t see them, Captain, and those poor bastards the boy sheikh commands are getting in the way,’ Lieutenant Peruzo shouted and pointed to the Tarabin warriors.

  William was only half listening.

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘Marco is out there, Peruzo. Dammit, I sent him to find Thomas,’ William replied.

  ‘Leave him to Jericho and Lucas.’ Peruzo took William’s arm and shook him to his senses. ‘What are we to do?’

  William’s thoughts swirled – and then stilled. He felt oddly removed for a moment, and swore out loud
to focus himself. ‘We can’t assault through Anwar and Mazin’s men . . . so we take the right flank. We hit them in the side. Who are our best climbers and best skirmishers?’

  Peruzo called the names, and those he mentioned stopped firing and lined up along the wagon.

  ‘Get them up that mountain and take care of the ambushers,’ William shouted. ‘But be careful . . . This is the Rassis’ home ground.’

  Peruzo nodded. ‘It will be done.’

  A hard climb would face them up the scree and scattered boulders to the right, but it offered a better screen than the left. The centre was slowly clogging up with men trying to scale the rock face, and falling under methodical volleys of arrows.

  As Anwar’s men retreated, a second wave of Suwarka threw themselves up the steep slopes of the mountain, Sheikh Mazin screaming at them to fall back. In answer, more arrows rained down. William saw several figures fall, shrieking all the way.

  With Peruzo and half the company suddenly charging from the wagon across the sandy ground towards the foot of the mountainside, William kept the others firing at what he considered was the perfect cover for the ambushers: an outcrop of rocks that formed a beetling ledge on the side of the slope, halfway up the mountain. From here this was all that could be done. William slipped off and headed for the lake.

  VIII

  Marco crawled over to where Brother Lucas was lying. He pushed through the reeds until his fingers found the monk’s boot, then used his elbows for leverage to pull himself along the brother’s right-hand side, tugging thick clumps of reeds away with his hands.

  Brother Lucas was barely conscious, but he managed to open his eyes slightly and let his head turn towards Marco.

  What are you doing here, boy?’ he said faintly.

  ‘You’ve been hit,’ Marco whispered.

  Brother Lucas seemed almost to smile. ‘Oh yes. Yes, you are right’ he said, sounding genuinely surprised as he glanced down at the wooden shaft embedded in his side. His eyes seemed to return to life. ‘What can you do about it?’

  ‘I ... I don’t know,’ Marco confessed.

  Brother Lucas winced. ‘I know little of dressing wounds, boy.’

  ‘But you’re bleeding . . .’

  Brother Lucas coughed and grimaced. ‘Yes ... Yes. I think ... I am.’

  ‘How do I stop you bleeding?’ Marco pleaded.

  Brother Lucas reached over with his right hand, his fingers clawing towards Marco’s. He held it tight. ‘You can’t. Not by yourself. But you can stay here with me. Until the end, if it must come. Can you do that?’

  Marco nodded and kept hold of Lucas’s hand as they lay in the reeds.

  *

  William found Jericho running through the camp but uncertain where to go.

  ‘Jericho! Where is my nephew?’ William demanded, seizing the monk’s shoulders.

  Jericho was startled by his urgency and looked blank for a moment. Then he gestured behind him, to the reeds and boulders that lay between the camp and the water. ‘I couldn’t reach him. He’s there, hidden in the reeds. With Brother Lucas.’

  ‘Wounded?’

  Jericho shook his head. ‘No. No. But Brother Lucas has been hit. I couldn’t get to them. Arrows cut us off . . . I had to find cover . . . I left them. I . . .’

  ‘You did what you could,’ William assured him.

  ‘Yes,’ Jericho said, but he was still ashamed. ‘I must go back. We need Brother Filippo.’

  ‘Filippo is on the mountain,’ William replied quickly. ‘We can do this without him.’

  They reached the edge of camp and waited for arrows to seek them. None came, and after a few moments’ pause William slapped Jericho on the shoulder and they ran, dirt spurting up in their wake as they sped across the ground, leaping over natural trenches, potholes and clumps of wild grass. Jericho put his head down and led the way.

  They would have run straight to the cover of the largest boulders if William had not stumbled over Marco, while Jericho slid into the reeds, rolling on his side. Relieved to find the boy in one piece, William turned his attention to Brother Lucas as Jericho crawled to his side.

  ‘Still alive?’ Jericho asked the monk, frowning at the shaft that jutted from under his ribs.

  ‘Still? Just,’ Brother Lucas whispered.

  Jericho studied the wound, the blood like dark red wine. He turned to William. ‘I need some water.’

  ‘Be quick,’ William replied. He motioned for Marco to move aside. Only now did Marco release Lucas’s slackening grip, while William took his place, holding his hand with both of his.

  ‘Captain . . .’

  ‘Don’t talk,’ William whispered to him. ‘Conserve your strength.’

  ‘I have little left . . .’ he said, his voice weakening. He inclined his head, his face grey. His eyes tried to open as blood ran down the corners of his pale lips. William knew he was losing him.

  ‘Promise you’ll find . . . The Hoard . . . Promise . . . You’ll destroy one for me . . .’ Brother Lucas gasped, his voice now barely audible.

  ‘I promise, Brother,’ William said, his hand on the monk’s growing tighter, trying to hold him in this world. But the effort was futile. William saw the light fade from his eyes, and felt his grip relax.

  ‘Rest, Brother,’ William said at last and closed Lucas’s eyes.

  Tears flowed down Marco’s grimy cheeks. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

  ‘I couldn’t . . .!’ came Jericho’s voice from up ahead. ‘. . . couldn’t find anything to hold the water!’

  The monk fell quickly to his knees and crawled over to them, holding his soaking wet shirt. ‘I tried to carry it in this, but the damn cotton doesn’t absorb enough. I need a water-skin, Captain. I need to . . .’

  William held up his hand. Jericho ceased and looked down at Brother Lucas. He was not breathing. Jericho bowed in despair, his shaking hand on the monk’s still chest.

  ‘Easy, Jericho,’ William assured him. ‘You did everything you could.’

  ‘It wasn’t enough.’ Jericho sighed.

  William lifted his head and listened to the change in battle. The sounds of fighting had almost ceased. Getting to his feet, he saw the Bedouins were returning to camp, carrying the wounded and the dead. Cupping his hands over his eyes against the setting sun, he saw grey figures around the outcrop halfway up the slope. It was Peruzo and the monks. They had reached their goal and were now looking for survivors.

  ‘We should go, William said. ‘We’ll carry Brother Lucas between us.’

  Silently, Jericho put his hands under the monk’s shoulders and lifted. William took Brother Lucas’s ankles, Marco put his hands under his back, and between them, in silence, they carried the fallen brother back to the camp.

  IX

  Sheikh Fahd looked surprisingly calm. ‘We lost eight men, and four were wounded,’ he said to William once they had rested Brother Lucas’s body with the company.

  ‘I’m sad to hear it,’ William said.

  ‘And Sheikh Mazin has lost thirty-two of his riders, Captain, with a dozen more wounded.’

  William stared at Sheikh Fahd. ‘So many?’

  ‘You were right. The Suwarka were rash to tackle the slope head-on.’ Sheikh Fahd looked at the blood on William’s hand – Brother Lucas’s blood. ‘How many of your brave monks died?’

  ‘One dead, no wounded,’ William said.

  Sheikh Fahd looked surprised. ‘One? That is just a scratch, Captain Saxon,’ he said.

  ‘Not to me, sir,’ William rebuked. ‘Let us talk later. He walked away.

  Peruzo and the monks were standing a few yards off, looking down at Brother Lucas’s body.

  ‘Lucas was a good man,’ Peruzo said.

  What did you find up there?’ William asked, not wishing to dwell on their loss.

  ‘A single body’

  ‘Just the one?’

  ‘There might have been more,’ Peruzo surmised. ‘They could have taken their dead with them. Th
e one corpse we did find had fallen from his position, down into a narrow ravine. He was jammed at the bottom.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Peruzo took William to the wagon and pulled back the canvas that had once covered the weapons. The corpse wore an ankle-length dark blue robe, and a black hood covered the head. Beneath the hood was a glazed ceramic mask shaped like a dragon’s face, with a flaming cyclops eye set into the forehead; it was covered in grime, blood and sand.

  William slipped his fingers under the mask. Blood had stuck it to the face beneath, so it came away with a tearing sensation and a crackling sound.

  The face was calm. It belonged to a man content with death, his eyes so serenely at peace that a few of the watching brothers gave audible gasps. Peruzo stepped forward, studying the enemy.

  ‘Like Master Yu,’ he remarked, seeing the hue of the skin and the narrower eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ William said, his suspicions confirmed. ‘This sect will be stronger than I feared.’

  ‘Captain, I heard you had a prisoner,’ came a voice behind them. The brothers parted and Thomas appeared with Hammid close behind. Marco noticed the Englishman was fully dressed.

  ‘I’m glad to see you unscathed, my friend,’ William greeted him warmly.

  Thomas half bowed, his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘By chance more than anything,’ he said and glanced at Marco. It was only slight, but it unnerved him. Marco stepped back against Jericho.

  This quick exchange did not go unnoticed by Peruzo. He walked over to the boy while William went on talking.

  ‘I feared your fate would be the same as Brother Lucas’s,’ William said and gestured to the body on the ground.

  ‘Not so, Captain,’ Thomas said. ‘Your men are the ones who saved my life. I was in cover in the camp when the first arrows fell. I am heartily glad to see that your nephew survived.’

  ‘Captain?’ Peruzo called out.

  William looked back. His lieutenant was standing next to Marco, but there was tension in his posture.

  ‘Will you excuse me, Thomas?’ William said.