The Hoard of Mhorrer

by M. F. W. Curran

  The Englishman nodded, with a touch of unease.

  Peruzo smiled, but the smile was false: it hid a darker purpose that only an old companion would have sensed.

  ‘What is wrong?’ William asked him at once.

  ‘Marco has seen something,’ Peruzo whispered.

  ‘“Something”?’ William looked from Peruzo to Marco.

  ‘When he found him in the water, Richmond was quick to cover his shoulder. Tell him what you saw, Marco.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Marco said. ‘I thought it was a wound. But I think it was something else. A sign.’

  ‘What sign?’

  ‘Like the sea. Waves. Three black waves painted on his shoulder.’

  Peruzo looked for recognition in his captain’s eyes . . .

  ‘It can’t be,’ William murmured. ‘You were mistaken.’

  ‘And if he wasn’t?’ Peruzo said.

  ‘Coincidence, surely.’

  ‘During this mission, Captain? With the spies of Count Ordrane lined up against us?’

  William rocked on his feet.

  ‘We have to know,’ Peruzo insisted.

  William nodded, trying to compose himself. It was a little too much to take. Yet there was doubt in his mind . . . A grain of doubt and a fear that he’d been taken in too easily. The boy must be wrong, he told himself. It was a mistake in the heat of battle. Nothing more.

  Sheikh Fahd came over to the wagon with the other sheikhs, curious about what the monks had found. The news of the dead Rassis had spread through the camp and everyone wished to see their enemy. But as Sheikh Fahd approached, he saw William shaken. The captain of the Order walked over to Thomas with an apologetic expression.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Thomas,’ William said, looking embarrassed. ‘It appears you’re hiding a secret from me.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Thomas replied.

  ‘Are you wounded?’ William asked pleasantly.

  ‘No sir, I am not.’

  ‘Then can I see your shoulder?’

  ‘Of course,’ Thomas said, taking off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled back the left shoulder, revealing nothing. ‘See?’

  William smiled and laughed weakly. ‘I’m sorry, Thomas. I meant your right shoulder.’

  Thomas stared at William and then at Marco. ‘The right?’

  William nodded.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I am asking you. Please?’

  Thomas smiled, but it faltered.

  ‘Please, Thomas?’ William gestured, his other hand creeping to the handle of his sword.

  ‘The right shoulder,’ Thomas said. ‘Of course.’

  As his left hand moved to the right shoulder of his shirt, his right hand seized the handle of his own sword. It came up fast, but Peruzo’s blade was already there. Thomas had been quick, but had not seen Peruzo’s stealthy approach. The blade clanged off Peruzo’s and fell to the ground when the lieutenant punched the Englishman full in the face. The sheikh’s men levelled their swords.

  Thomas straightened up, His hand at his bleeding lip. He spat on the ground.

  Peruzo kicked away the fallen sword and then ripped open Thomas’s shirt to reveal the three black waves Marco had seen at the oasis: the mark of the kafala, the servant of Count Ordrane of Draak.

  William backed away, almost choking on the fetid wave of desolation that rose from his stomach.

  Peruzo saw William’s suffering and in anger he struck Thomas across the cheek. Thomas’s head jerked to the side, and he strove to keep his feet for a moment, defiantly, before sagging to his knees with a groan. ‘I owe you for that,’ he snarled at Peruzo.

  Peruzo stared down, unflinching.

  William swung round. ‘Jericho,’ he growled. Brother Jericho jumped as if a sword’s tip had prodded him, nervous in the face of William’s fury. ‘Empty the wagon and then organize the brothers to build a cage. I want this man chained and confined.’

  ‘He should be executed . . .’ Peruzo protested.

  ‘Now, Jericho!’ William barked. Looking distraught and pale, he brushed through the crowd of monks and Arabs and walked to his tent, murmuring to himself: ‘No executions today. There’s been too much death already.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Journey to the End

  I

  Once prayers had been spoken, sorrows conveyed and vows renewed, the monks withdrew from Brother Lucas’s grave, mere yards from where he had fallen. Peruzo led William away, thinking to distance his captain from their loss. He escorted him to a fire where some of Sheikh Fahd’s men sat. They looked up at the two Europeans, and it was Hisham who nodded towards them, gesturing for them to sit. Here, as elsewhere, it was a solemn gathering.

  ‘How could I have been so wrong about Richmond, Peruzo?’ William said aloud, aware that his words would mean nothing to the Bedouins around him.

  ‘It doesn’t happen often, Captain,’ Peruzo observed cheerfully.

  ‘Did you see it coming?’

  The lieutenant shrugged and stoked the fire in front of them; the embers glowed brighter with each prod and sparks spat into the air. ‘It matters not what I thought,’ he said after a few moments.

  ‘It does to me,’ William insisted.

  Peruzo looked skyward, as though the stars might shine on his wisdom, giving it some weight of credence. Never would he presume to lecture his captain, but nor would he refuse a request. ‘I thought Richmond was a little suspicious. It was odd he would always bathe separately from the others. But there was nothing to say he was an enemy.’

  ‘I didn’t even notice that,’ William said distantly. ‘My judgement was flawed. I failed the company .’

  ‘You’ve had distractions,’ Peruzo replied. ‘The mission for one. Marco for another.’

  ‘Yes, Marco . . . That boy always gets into trouble.’

  Peruzo shook his head. ‘Captain, forgive me for being so bold, but I think Marco can look after himself.’

  ‘You don’t know him as I do,’ William replied.

  ‘I know him well enough. He’s had no motherly or fatherly guidance, with the exception of yours and Adriana’s. He lost his parents at the time a boy needs them the most. And he lost them to our enemies. All Marco has known since then is your defence of the Light. He knows only of your battle against the forces of Hell. Your heroism. Your leadership.’

  ‘You are saying he wishes to emulate me?’

  ‘No,’ said Peruzo. ‘I’m saying he wishes to follow you. As we all have. If anything, the last week has taught you that Marco is ready. He’s brave, he’s willing . . . And he is old enough.’

  ‘And yet with Marresca you believed him too young,’ William remarked.

  ‘I was wrong about Marresca,’ Peruzo admitted. ‘The lieutenant could handle himself well enough. My only concern was . . .’

  ‘Yes, Lieutenant?’ William said.

  Peruzo locked his hands together in thought and stared into the fire. ‘I believed Marresca was too cold a killer. Like a statue of a warrior with no heart. No soul. I was afraid the war was taking away his humanity, Captain.’

  William understood the sentiment perfectly well. The way the lad could slay without hesitation, without a second thought. Even William, with all his years of fighting, did not relish ending a life, be it vampyre, daemon or mortal. Killing was necessary, and that was all. But Marresca had been born to slay, and did so too efficiently to be altogether human. His progression to Dar’uka seemed right, perhaps even pre-ordained: an unnatural young killer becoming an immortal warrior.

  ‘Yet you believe Marco would not turn that way?’ William asked.

  ‘You saw what happened at the Ayaida camp,’ Peruzo said. ‘He cared more for the sheikh’s sister than he did about destroying a vampyre. Like Marresca in many ways. He has more passion. More love.’

  ‘That may be,’ William admitted, and sighed. ‘But right now we need a dozen Marrescas, Peruzo, not my nephew. A clutch of cold killers would help us
against the Rassis.’

  ‘Will the Rassis use the Scarimadaen in battle?’ Peruzo said.

  It was a thought William dreaded. ‘Honestly? I don’t know. It is written that the Rassis are keeping the Hoard for a specified time. No one knows when that will be. It is possible they have orders only to release the daemons when that time has come.’

  ‘Not even as a last resort?’

  William turned pale. ‘Aye. As a last resort they may. I trust you won’t mention this to the others? Not even this army could stand against two hundred daemons. Sheikh Mazin is skittish enough. So as far as anyone else is concerned, the Rassis will not use the Hoard against us.’

  The conversation flagged while both men considered its implications. The idea of facing both the Rassis and their daemons was terrifying.

  ‘Is there any hope the Dar’uka will aid us?’ Peruzo asked finally.

  ‘I have prayed they will,’ William admitted. ‘They might hear my words. Or they might not. The Dar’uka say they know everything. I wonder now if that is true. If it is, then they’ll know how close we are to nearing our goal, and they will help us.’

  ‘And if not?’

  ‘Then we must rely on our courage and our allies. Our luck has improved of late. Maybe it will improve a little more when we face the Rassis.’ William rose to his feet and stretched. ‘Where is Hammid?’

  ‘He is a prisoner of Sheikh Fahd. They will execute him in the morning.’

  ‘I need to talk to him.’

  ‘Why? He’ll tell you little, I’m sure.’

  ‘Thomas Richmond is a liar. He is a deceiver of the highest order. A man who was willing to risk everything against the Rashid militia in order to infiltrate our company. He saved my life, but to what end? What did he have to gain?’

  ‘You think Richmond had a plan?’

  ‘I am certain of it. If Hammid is going to die, he will plead for mercy, won’t he? He will tell us everything to save himself. William turned to go, bowing to the men around the fire.

  ‘What? Now?’ Peruzo said.

  ‘Time won’t wait for us, my friend,’ William replied.

  II

  Four men were guarding Hammid, with two more nearby. They had been hand-picked by Sheikh Fahd himself, a gesture to William that he understood the danger this man posed.

  William consulted first with Sheikh Fahd, who agreed to attend the interrogation even though it was far into the night. Hisham stood nearby his brawny arms crossed over his chest as Hammid was dragged into Sheikh Fahd’s tent by the four guards and thrown to the floor.

  Hammid whimpered but stayed quiet.

  ‘Get up,’ William said, gesturing to him with his sword.

  Hammid got to his knees, but could not look at William.

  ‘Sir,’ William said, ‘perhaps you could tell him that we need to know everything about Thomas Richmond.’

  Sheikh Fahd agreed and looked down at Hammid from his raised chair. He shouted at him, but more with urgency than fury. Hammid turned to Sheikh Fahd; he was anxious, but William saw resignation in his eyes. He knew he was going to die, and that pleading would not save him.

  After a moment or two of composure, Hammid began to speak, and Sheikh Fahd translated:

  ‘He says they met in Rashid months ago. Richmond told him he was a friend of a count in Europe, a powerful man who was looking for a prize beyond measure. Richmond wanted two things: a guide who knew Egypt well, and the whereabouts of Charles Greynell. Hammid knew nothing of Charles, but agreed to be Richmond’s guide on condition that he found a cure for his illness.’

  ‘What illness?’ William asked.

  ‘He is dying, Captain Saxon,’ Sheikh Fahd replied over Hammid’s timid chattering. ‘He has a great infirmity that eats away inside him. He passes blood each day and night, and knows with every setting sun his life ebbs faster. Richmond promised he would rid him of the illness. And . . . to make him immortal?’ Sheikh Fahd began laughing sadly. ‘Foolish little man. How could he believe such lies?’

  ‘Perhaps not completely untruthful,’ William replied. ‘Richmond’s master indeed could grant that wish.’

  Sheikh Fahd frowned. ‘Surely not. Only gods have such power.’

  ‘Then Count Ordrane of Draak is a demigod,’ William said ruefully, ‘for he is immortal himself and can make others like him. If Richmond had succeeded in his mission, immortality might have been his prize. Yet I doubt Count Ordrane would bestow such a gift on this poor wretch.’

  Sheikh Fahd got up from his chair. ‘While I pity this fool, he will be executed in the morning, Captain.’

  William looked down at Hammid again. ‘Sir, before you go, may I ask one more favour?’ he said. ‘Could you find out if he knows anything about the vampyres? Particularly any plans they have?’

  Sheikh Fahd stared at William, a little weary of his requests. ‘For you, Captain, of course,’ he said patiently.

  He spoke to Hammid again, and the chatter resumed. ‘He says he knows only that Richmond met the “creatures of the dark” several times.’

  ‘When?’ William asked.

  ‘The last time was four nights ago. He says the final vampyre fled to the north to find an army,’ Sheikh Fahd translated and then trailed off. He said something to Hammid, and then grew angry at the man’s reply. Hammid’s chatter increased, now fearful.

  ‘This army he speaks of . . . He knows little, but it will be coming,’ Sheikh Fahd translated.

  Hammid continued to talk, this time slower than before, his hands balled into fists, his expression furious.

  ‘What does he say now?’

  ‘He pleads.’

  ‘He pleads with anger?’ William remarked, surprised by the servant’s deportment, the way Hammid seemed ready to strike out at someone or something.

  Sheikh Fahd looked unimpressed. ‘He says he should not have trusted Richmond. But Richmond threatened him. He says he should have driven a dagger into Richmond’s back when he had the chance, but he was a coward.’

  William heard the contempt in Sheikh Fahd’s voice, but it was at odds with the anger from Hammid. William walked around and stood in front of the servant. He bent down and looked him in the eyes.

  ‘What are you looking for, Captain Saxon?’ Sheikh Fahd said, and then yawned. ‘It is late. I am tired, and we will do battle tomorrow.’

  ‘Please indulge me, sir,’ he replied, ‘for I think we may suffer another battle but for this man.’

  ‘I cannot see how.’

  ‘If there is another army coming for us from the north, Hammid may yet be of use. Tell him that I cannot save him, and that his illness will kill him. I do not offer immortality, but repentance,’ William said.

  Sheikh Fahd relayed this. Hammid faltered for a moment, and perhaps it was resignation that twisted his face that way. Then a tear rolled down one cheek as he held out his hands. He said something quite gentle and deliberate, faintly smiling. Sheikh Fahd didn’t translate immediately but stared at Hammid.

  ‘He says he only wishes to atone for being in league with a devil like Richmond. He says “the blood of his countrymen is on his hands” because the illness made him weak.’

  ‘What would he do for atonement?’ William asked.

  ‘He says anything you ask of him,’ Sheikh Fahd replied.

  William smiled, but it was free of compassion. ‘Then do not execute this man.’

  Sheikh Fahd looked angry. ‘This is not your choice, my English friend.’

  ‘I ask as a favour, sir,’ William said, helping Hammid to his feet. ‘This man may have stayed silent, but has he lied? No, he has been afraid, and men who fear can be useful.’

  ‘Explain yourself!’ Sheikh Fahd demanded, furious that he should be denied blood.

  ‘He is the only link to our enemies, the only link to Richmond. If an army of kafalas rides over these hills or tries to ambush us after we have been to the Valley of Fire, we will lose, sir, and the Hoard of Mhorrer will be released. Is that what you wish?’
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  Sheikh Fahd opened his mouth to retort, but he stopped short. Instead he folded his arms and looked down at Hammid. ‘What could this wretch offer to stop such an ambush?’

  ‘We could use him to discover Richmond’s scheme. Hammid is the only one he can trust.’

  ‘That man is no fool, Captain Saxon. He will smell the deceit. He will not believe this coward has remained loyal to him,’ Sheikh Fahd scoffed.

  ‘Maybe,’ William replied, ‘or perhaps Hammid is still loyal to Richmond. The temptation of immortality is a strong one.’

  ‘You think he would turn back to Richmond? You think he is deceiving us now?’

  ‘I do not know for sure. But we can make certain it happens. Once Hammid knows of Richmond’s plans, I can make Hammid talk, one way or another. We let loose the rat to see where it scurries.’

  Sheikh Fahd smiled. ‘I understand your thinking. But I will keep him on a short leash, Captain.’

  ‘As you see fit,’ William said, and walked away from Hammid and out of the tent.

  Outside the air chilled his skin through his shirt and Peruzo wrapped his arms about himself. ‘Can you tell me what happened in there, Captain?’

  ‘I saved Hammid’s life.’

  Peruzo disapproved.

  ‘I did it to learn more about Richmond,’ William explained. ‘I want to know why he went to such lengths to deceive us. The vampyres could have destroyed us at any point, Peruzo. They could have left us at the mercy of the militia from Rashid for one. But they didn’t. In fact, I suspect they helped to free us.’

  ‘That makes little sense, Captain.’

  ‘I know. But what if they weren’t strong enough to take the Hoard themselves? Maybe the Rassis are more formidable than the vampyres the Count sent here. And that’s what I need to know: how strong are the Rassis? Hammid can find these answers if we make Richmond believe he is still loyal to him.’

  ‘It is a great risk,’ Peruzo said, looking hesitant. ‘If Hammid helps Richmond escape . . .’

  ‘He won’t. He’ll be kept on a leash.’

  They walked back to the tent in silence, the conversation over. William had made his decision. Peruzo hoped they didn’t regret it.