The Hoard of Mhorrer

by M. F. W. Curran

  Of the company of monks William knew five: Brothers Jericho, Filippo and Vincent were with him, Brothers Neil and Orlando had been sent out across the field of the dead to recover the company’s rifles, while the other surviving monks, Rocco and Mattia, were the last of Vittore’s Spanish company.

  And then there was Marco. William would have baulked at taking the boy on a mission akin to suicide, but Marco had shown courage and resilience, and his youthful high spirits heartened the other men. He had proved himself as much as any of them. And if the past battle had taught William anything, it was that a Marco unsupervised would only get himself into further trouble.

  ‘Captain?’ Brother Jericho addressed him as he cleaned his sword on the hem of a Rassis robe. The monk looked worn and battered, with his jacket in shreds and one cheek gashed to the bone. Yet under the blood and fatigue, Jericho was alert. ‘Marco and I noticed a hidden track up the mountain fifty yards to our right.’

  William looked at Marco, who nodded.

  ‘A hidden path?’ Peruzo chimed in.

  ‘We only noticed it when the Rassis tried to outflank you,’ Jericho explained. ‘If it’s a secret stairway, we could scale the mountain quicker, couldn’t we?’

  William nodded. ‘Find out for me, Jericho. And keep your head down.’

  Jericho nodded and grinned, and then he was gone.

  ‘The rest of you, make ready,’ William commanded. ‘We must assault the mountain and take that temple at the peak. I am certain the Hoard of Mhorrer lies above us. Should we turn back now, we fail our mission, and all of our fallen friends have died for nothing.

  ‘So do we turn and flee? Or do we take what is ours?’

  The response was unanimous and rapturous. ‘I will speak to Sheikh Fahd. Perhaps he can rally the tribes for us,’ William said aside to Peruzo, leaving them to prepare.

  II

  Grief was most prominent within Sheikh Anwar’s tribe. The surviving Tarabin sobbed quietly, staring out at their hundreds of corpses and fatally wounded. The cries of the dying wailed across the valley, swirling upon the wind. William wanted an end to that lamentation as he made his way past clusters of resting Arabs, so many of them bloodied and dejected, their thoughts on the friends and relatives who lay where they had fallen in the sand.

  William found Sheikh Fahd leaning against a rock, with a heap of blankets for a seat. His white robes were now stained rusty red where a tear revealed the bandage wrapped around him. He looked pale, but the colour had returned to his cheeks over the last half-hour. And with it his humour.

  ‘I think I’ll fight on, Captain Saxon,’ he chuckled.

  ‘Indeed,’ William replied. ‘You could wrestle a young bull in that state, sir.’

  Sheikh Fahd chuckled again, and then began coughing. ‘Perhaps not,’ he said, and groaned as he held his side. ‘Where is Hammid?’

  William shrugged.

  ‘Find him, Captain,’ the sheikh requested.

  Why? Did Hammid do this to you, sir?’ William asked uneasily.

  Sheikh Fahd shook his head. ‘He saved my life, Captain.’

  William was astounded.

  ‘Find him. Keep him safe. He has earned my gratitude.’

  ‘I will try It is hard to find anyone at present. He may have been killed,’ William said, gazing at the Bedouins strung out along the line of nearby rocks, out of sight of the archers above.

  ‘I will pray to Allah that he was not,’ Sheikh Fahd declared. He shifted about and looked up the slopes of the mountain. ‘What are your plans?’

  ‘Would you have us leave, sir?’ William asked him. ‘We have suffered heavy losses, and your allies seem demoralized.’

  Sheikh Fahd looked angry. ‘They will stand and fight, or I will declare them cowards!’

  ‘And what of Sheikh Galal? He is the only one who can lead. What will he do?’ William asked.

  ‘Galal will do what is in the best interests of the Aquila. If he agrees, you will still attack?’

  William nodded. ‘We face only half our enemy and we may yet prevail. But we must strike soon.’

  Sheikh Fahd nodded. ‘My men will follow you. As will the Aquila and what is left of the Tarabin, I promise. I only wish I was fighting by your side.’ He reached up a hand to William.

  William took the hand with his right, his left now bound with rags over severed stumps. They shook and William smiled. ‘If we succeed, I will have you carried to our victory.’

  Sheikh Fahd grinned. ‘Very well, Captain. May Allah’s blessing fall upon you and your men, and keep you safe.’

  William parted company and turned back to the monks. Brothers Neil and Orlando had returned from searching the battlefield for the discarded rifles, and were already handing them over as William arrived. Brother Neil passed William a rifle. Methodically, he cleaned and checked the firearm, removing the sand and ensuring that the flintlock was intact. He tied two small ammunition pouches around his waist as the company waited on their captain.

  Brother Jericho came back looking more dishevelled than before and caked with rock dust, but his smile was broader than ever. ‘Our guess was correct, Captain. There’s a narrow stairway carved inside a fissure about forty yards down to the right. It runs up the mountain to that flight of steps to the left. But I cannot tell if the Rassis are lying in wait.’

  ‘You’ve done well, Jericho,’ William told him.

  ‘Are we going to fight?’ Brother Jericho asked.

  ‘We are, William said calmly, handing him another of the company’s rifles. He slung his own over his shoulder and gestured behind them. ‘We wait on Sheikh Galal, and then we shall storm your stairway.’

  III

  Sheikh Galal returned from his meeting with Sheikh Fahd. The battle had sapped both his wits and his courage, yet Sheikh Fahd’s words struck him like a blow: ‘If we turn back now all those who have died will have perished for nothing.’

  Sheikh Galal had asked the sheikh what they were fighting for. To which Sheikh Fahd replied: ‘Because this honest man of Allah has told us of a great catastrophe. Because this prophet of doom is ready to sacrifice himself and his men to stop a great death falling over our lands. And if we do nothing, these “ghosts” of the Sinai will destroy our tribes. We men of the Sinai are not cowards!’

  The speech was bold, and yet Galal knew it was also flawed. Most of their army had perished, and the strength they had once commanded was all but shattered. As for these men of Allah, they were almost utterly destroyed, and yet . . .

  .. . And yet it had been the sight of them in action that caused Galal to reconsider retreating from the valley. He had seen several of these Europeans fighting alongside the Aquila. They had charged in with their grey uniforms and strange weapons, full of a matchless bravery They leapt into the thick of battle, slaying and being slain in return. And regardless of their suffering, they would keep fighting until their lives were utterly spent. And when death came they did not sink to their knees and beg for mercy They did not cower in the face of a sharp blade.

  Sheikh Galal stood at the foot of the mountain and stared long and hard towards where this man called Saxon waited with his much-depleted company He nodded thoughtfully, then he addressed the Bedouins to his left and right.

  ‘Warriors of Aquila, of Ayaida and Tarabin! Draw swords with me and remember Fahd and Anwar. We follow the man in grey’ he said. ‘And we will follow him with Allah in our hearts. Remember: mercy will not be offered by our enemies. And by Allah, they will not receive it. This battle is to the death!’

  The message flew like the wind along both flanks, and a tide of energy with it. William saw it happen and looked bewildered. What do you think that means?’ Peruzo asked.

  William was about to shake his head, but found the Bedouins drawing their weapons with one hand, the other placed on the rock face in front of them as they prepared to climb.

  William turned to Peruzo with a broad grin. ‘It means we fight’

  ‘Good,’ Peruzo said gruffl
y. ‘I didn’t travel through a wasteland for nothing.’

  ‘Are we prepared?’ William asked his company. They nodded. ‘Marco?’ he asked, more nervous for his nephew’s life than for his own.

  Marco smiled. He didn’t look afraid, and he held his sword like an old friend. ‘Stick close to Peruzo,’ William said to the boy and winked, ‘and you’ll be fine’

  A cry went down the lines of the Bedouins and William took a deep breath. ‘Good luck, gentlemen,’ he said, and headed for the hidden stairway.

  IV

  For a while it was a leisurely ascent. Half an hour when not a Rassis could be seen, nor did a single arrow fly The steps Jericho had discovered took them to the right of the main assault, and while it was a steady and daunting climb – believing at any time they would happen upon a pocket of Rassis warriors – they were halfway up the mountain before there was any sign of the enemy. The mood was queer, the quiet broken only by the Bedouins below them, their voices rising in optimism that the enemy had fled and the mountain was deserted.

  As the company rested for several minutes, William watched from the steps high above as several Ayaida began to break cover very slowly, some pausing for breath to sit on rocks in the open, growing nonchalant about the assault. Some were even openly congratulating each other.

  William’s monks were too wary to take such a lull for an omen, and they kept their heads well down. ‘Lower, Marco . . .’ Peruzo hissed, prodding him in the back with the hilt of his sword until the boy ducked under cover.

  ‘Where are they?’ Marco hissed back. ‘Why don’t they fire at us?’

  ‘They’re just waiting,’ Peruzo assured him. ‘Don’t raise your head for anything, understand?’

  The sky above was bright enough, but with the late afternoon sun already hidden behind the hills of the valley, the air turned quickly cold. Below them, the first Bedouins appeared on a long slope of scree that ran up at a gentle angle to a line of boulders that screened the staircase. Persuaded by the easy appearance of these stone steps, two dozen of the Arabs began to clamber towards the slope, laughing to each other as they sank up to the ankles in shingle, pulling each other up as they joked in the eerie quiet.

  As the first three Bedouins came within a few feet of the steps there was a sudden shift of air, like a whistling . . . and then sounds that went ‘Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!’ broke the silence. The three men stopped, foundered in the soft scree, then rolled down the slope with arrows in their chests.

  More whistling came, m ore impacts, and several more Bedouins fell. Their deaths froze the other Ayaida for a moment, time enough for another volley to strike the remaining Arabs caught in the open, cutting them down at once.

  William watched hopelessly as another wave of arrows fell from the air amongst the unshielded Bedouins and screams and cries mingled with the clatter of metal on stone. ‘Keep down!’ he warned the monks. He urged them forward to where the steps narrowed along a fracture in the rocks, the occasional arrow skipping off a boulder nearby. Soon they were on their knees and Marco crawled on blindly, his heart racing; when an arrow ricocheted a foot from his head, he gave a yelp and almost collided with his uncle’s back.

  William guided them to where the stairway broke into the open. The steps dropped away to a ledge which wound its way up to where the stairs went on uninterrupted.

  ‘Be ready,’ he began, ‘and run after me . . . Flatten yourself against the far rock. Peruzo, take the right and watch our rear . . . The others . . . Follow tight and quick . . .’

  And then William ran, springing to the rock face at the far side of the open ledge. Peruzo dashed to the right as instructed. Then came Marco, followed by the monks, Brother Filippo leaping just before arrows whistled along the fissure. Below them, the Bedouins were pinned down.

  ‘We have to reach those archers,’ Jericho said.

  ‘They’re above us,’ Peruzo replied. ‘Even with our rifles, we couldn’t hope to shoot them. They have a higher elevation and better cover.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Jericho is right: we must try,’ William said. That very moment there was a rush of feet behind them near where Peruzo stood. A Rassis flung himself at Peruzo seemingly from nowhere, but the older man’s ears were fine-tuned and he heard the swish of steel cutting air. He ducked, and the long sword clanged on the stone behind him, before he swung the butt of his rifle up between the cultist’s legs. The warrior groaned in agony and fell to his knees.

  As the warrior squirmed helpless on the floor, William saw an opportunity. He stopped Peruzo from slitting the cultist’s throat, and instead dragged the man to the edge of the outcrop and launched him over it to sail down the mountainside and land with the snap of breaking bones close to where the Bedouins were pinned down by the Rassis archers.

  It had the desired effect. The Bedouins cheered at once, raising their swords defiantly to renew their attack up the slope with fresh hope, while others ran to the prostrate cultist and repeatedly stabbed the body with their swords.

  Pleased with the effect, and with the sound of the Bedouins starting upwards again, William signalled to move up the staircase. Gusts of arrows continued to fall, impaling climbing men where they stood, tearing thro ugh flesh and bone. It was bloody, and at times it was a slaughter, but the Bedouins struggled up to the ledge as William and his monks made their way up the stone steps.

  Ahead, the stairs wound their way through another fracture in the rock face, and then snaked off to the left, before rising once more. After another quick ascent, the steps broke out of cover again, flanked by a steep drop on one side and a gradual slope on the other that lay in view of the Rassis positions high above. William sprinted across the yards of open space, The monks close behind. The Rassis fired too late, The arrows impotent as they clattered harmlessly off the steps.

  ‘We can’t hope to use our rifles, so be ready to fight at close quarters,’ William ordered. ‘Make sure you engage with your back against the rock face. Do not be turned. And fight as one. Double up, make them tire, and go for the groin, the arms, and the neck.’

  His advice was timely, as from the steps ahead dashed three Rassis, running in silence towards them, their dragon masks glaring. William held his ground where others might panic. Peruzo stood just off to his side, and as the first Rassis lunged for him, the captain feinted to the left and struck the assailant’s long sword upwards, while Peruzo closed in with his shortsword to skewer the warrior. As the lieutenant withdrew the blade, he ducked the blow from the second Rassis, just as one of the brothers ran his sword through the cultist’s belly. William drove his sword down on the wounded Rassis, cleaving him from the crown to the chin. After Jericho and Neil hacked down the third cultist, William waved the monks on.

  Marco was careful not to run into his uncle again with each abrupt stop as the company dodged arrows or paused to view the progress of their allies now far below them. He observed Peruzo and Jericho, especially their determination, and it grew upon Marco: he had to be as resolute as they were if he was to survive this, and he concentrated grimly.

  Another Rassis leapt from a niche in the cliffs above. Jericho ducked the assassin in blue, but one of the brothers was not so lucky. The cultist drove his sword through Brother Vincent’s chest, but the monk embraced his killer and pulled him off the staircase. Both men cartwheeled to certain death below.

  William glanced down into the deepening shadows, following Vincent’s outline until it disappeared from sight. Night was falling. There was no time to mourn, or even to pause, and he dragged his company further up the stairs. As the steps rounded a corner, two waiting Rassis sprang. Peruzo dropped to his knees and fired point-blank at the first. The shot tore a hole in his armour and the warrior dropped.

  The second Rassis swung wildly at William, who deflected the sword with his rifle, spinning to club the warrior over the head. Jericho yelled as he thrust his sword through the cultist’s belly, and then Orlando and Neil dived in and stabbed the cultist until he moved no more.
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  William loaded his rifle carefully and looked to each man. We’re near the heart of the Rassis’ defence’ he said. ‘Load your guns and shoot cleanly as the lieutenant did. Aim for the heads if you can.’

  At the top of the steps came the tread of running feet, the sounds of alarm. The Rassis knew the men in grey were coming.

  V

  The sun was beginning to set as Peruzo appeared, the first to reach the top. Several attackers came at him, but with the glare of the setting sun directly behind him, the Rassis ran blindly, not even seeing the rifle. Once the barrel was level with the first dragon mask, he squeezed the trigger and the wearer’s head exploded.

  The others continued charging, but Peruzo stood at his shoulder and brought his own rifle to bear. Instead of shooting the next Rassis in the head, he aimed for the legs. The bullet blew a kneecap apart and the warrior fell down hard in front of his brethren. Two fell over him, while another leapt over the writhing figure just as William dashed forward. The cultist ran onto his sword and the momentum knocked William to the ground.

  That was a stroke of fortune, for another wave came running across the long landing at the top of the steps. Waiting behind William were Brothers Neil, Mattia and Orlando, who now fired a simultaneous volley that cut down three more of the Rassis. By now both Peruzo and Jericho had loaded again. At this range it was slaughter, and a further two enemies fell. One of the wounded tried to rise, but Brother Rocco bent forward and broke his neck.

  With the dark orange sun at their backs, William positioned the monks in a line at the top of the stairs, and they swiftly reloaded as they scanned the scene before them. The stairs stopped abruptly at a wide outcropping that was a dozen yards wide and a hundred in length, so that it formed a long lip of sandstone against the mountain, its gradient undulating upward. Along this rising slope were cave entrances and lean-tos where the Rassis now streamed out, their swords drawn, but looking disorganized. They had not counted on anyone reaching so far up the mountain so quickly.

  Between them and William’s men were the enemy archers. While they’d been perfectly sited to pick off the Bedouins below using the parapet of boulders as cover, They were wide open to enfilading fire from their right flank – which the brothers now began, raking volleys across the Rassis from out of the sunset glare.