As the monks aimed and fired, and archers died, William gestured to Marco to keep his head down. Despite the crack of gunfire and the torrent of smoke that rolled before them, Marco was chafing to join in. He weighed his sword in his hand and watched eagerly as the Rassis charged towards the monks in desperation. When they got within ten yards of the brothers, William ordered the company to fire again. Each shot found its mark and another eight Rassis were dead. In a matter of minutes, a score of Rassis were either killed or wounded.
As the monks reloaded, Marco wriggled past his uncle and hunkered down next to the wall of rock immediately on the left. Above it was a slope and a narrow stairway that ran to the top of the mountain and the temple. The setting sun made it sparkle like a dull jewel, and William was impatient to reach the end of their mission.
The Hoard of Mhorrer was so close.
Amid the mayhem and the smoke of gunfire, the Rassis re-positioned some archers at the tight stairway to the temple. There they could shoot, and a volley sailed down at the monks.
‘To your knees!’ William cried out.
The brothers ducked, but Brother Rocco was too slow. Two arrows struck him in the belly and he fell to the ground, screaming out in agony.
As they rose to fire back, a second volley streaked towards them, and the company scattered for safety. Peruzo pulled three of the brothers down the steps just as arrows hit the ground where they’d been kneeling, while Mattia, Jericho and William flung themselves against the wall of rock to the left where Marco was crouching.
Using the steps as cover, Peruzo raised his rifle and returned fire. The shot whined harmlessly off the wall of the stairway, and he reloaded as Brother Rocco continued to squirm in the dirt before them, twin shafts protruding from his stomach. Brother Filippo dared to reach for him, only for Peruzo to pull the field surgeon back from danger.
‘Hang on, brother!’ Filippo cried out. He loaded his gun desperately, raised it and fired towards the archers above them, but in his haste he only hit rock.
William took Marco by the collar and hauled him upright just as a lone cultist charged down the wall to where they stood. With his left hand still grasping Marco’s jacket, he tried to parry the strikes that rained down on him, but the warrior disarmed him in seconds. Jericho reacted by reflex: he drove his sword with all his might through the cultist’s belly to lodge in his spine. As the warrior stumbled back, the sword went with him. Jericho might have reached to retrieve it, but William hauled him away with Marco, back to the steps, to a measure of safety.
Brother Mattia defended their rear against several charging Rassis and paid the price; after cleaving three Rassis, he was run through by the fourth. Crying out in fury, Brother Orlando fired his Baker rifle at Mattia’s killer. But another volley of arrows soared their way, and William and his nephew barely reached safety as several struck the top step. A couple of arrows sailed inches past Brother Neil’s crown, but one tore into the chest of the prone Brother Rocco, and his cries of pain were silenced.
‘We’re pinned down,’ Peruzo shouted, ‘and we’re fast running out of ammunition, Captain.’
The Rassis began to return fire at will, single arrows cutting through the air about them, disrupting the aim of their Baker rifles. Brother Filippo yelled out suddenly and stumbled back as an arrow struck him through the cheek. He flailed his arms in the air and stepped blindly over the side of the steps. William threw out his hands to stop the monk from falling. ‘Filippo!’ he cried, but fell silent as the field surgeon tumbled into oblivion.
William felt beaten. Victory had been in their hands. He had tasted the elation, if only briefly – had marvelled at their fight against the odds. But surely now the Hoard was beyond them. Their numbers were too few, the Bedouins had been all but massacred at the foot of the mountain, and now his company were being killed off one by one as the Rassis gained the upper hand.
If the Dar’uka had aided them, it would have been so easy. But they hadn’t. Unlike their last-ditch intervention during the battle on the Iberian and at Aosta, they had not come, and it angered William. He felt betrayed by them, betrayed by his best friend. And now they would all die, because of him. The brothers, Peruzo . . . And Marco.
‘Damn you, Kieran,’ William murmured, as another flurry of arrows fell among them.
VI
While the archers loosed another volley at the enemy (those soldiers in grey who had come so miraculously far up the mountain), at the other end of the landing the Rassis began to chant: ‘Egori ratsa Ifer! Egori ratsa Ifer!’ The words were in an ancient language, and the Cult used it now to boost their courage.
Translated, the words were: ‘The Champion of the Traitor steps forth! The Champion of the Traitor steps forth!’ And so the Champion did. He was taller than the other Rassis, almost seven feet in height. His shoulders were broad, and hung about them was armour of leather and iron that covered his chest and waist. Over this armour was a dark blue gown trimmed in gold that reached to the ankles. The warrior did not wear a mask like his brethren but a band of cloth around the forehead, where a single eye wreathed in fire was embroidered. His skin was darker than the rusty sand, his hair jet-black, and his eyes narrow and fierce.
As the chanting rose, the Champion of the Traitor stepped out of the cave and into the copper sunlight, lifting his weapon of choice: a staff of iron that would have taken two of his fellows to hold. He turned to the Rassis massed about him and brandished the staff in the air. The Rassis’ chant rose to a cheer that echoed from the mountaintop; behind the champion, they surged forward.
The enemy at the steps were weakening – it was time for the Rassis to conquer once and for all.
VII
The monks loaded again and fired. Above the reports of the rifles, the company could hear the Rassis’ mantra. It was a dreadful sound, eerie and vengeful. Its wailing menace threatened their resolve, and William fought to master his trepidation as marching feet trod closer in the background.
Marco cowered and shrank against the steps.
After another volley of arrows sailed inches above their heads, William shouted up to Peruzo: ‘What is happening up there?’
Peruzo rested his rifle for a few moments and peered through the gun smoke. The Rassis were emerging again, but they were behind something, or someone, that dwarfed them all.
‘Peruzo?’ William shouted again.
‘I swear to God ...’ Peruzo gasped and stared back at William. ‘We have to retreat’
William looked staggered. ‘What are you talking about?’
Peruzo reached down and pulled William up to his position. It was crowded at the top of the steps, but already Orlando and Neil were moving away as awestruck as Peruzo. William peered through the dissipating smoke and saw why There were dozens and dozens of Rassis marching towards the steps, their swords held above their heads. But even the massed ranks of warriors in dragon masks did not compare in terror with the giant who led them. He was enormous, and the weapon in his hands was a pendulum of death.
‘I’m out of ammunition, sir,’ Orlando said to William.
‘Get back,’ William said reluctantly. ‘All of you . . . Back now’
The monks retreated and Peruzo loaded his rifle to cover their escape. With their ammunition all but spent, the giant’s appearance was the final spur that William needed to abandon their assault. Marco and Jericho led the way while he stood with his lieutenant and covered the slow retreat down the stairway. The first of the Rassis appeared at the top of the stairs and they both fired; two cultists collapsed and tumbled down the steps.
William loaded again. ‘Fall back! Fall back!’ he cried as he descended another step. A cultist appeared and flew towards them, and only Peruzo’s glancing blow from the Baker rifle stopped him from harming either man. But the rifle broke, and Peruzo threw it to the floor, d rawing his sword in desperation as William fired his last shot, taking out another blue-clad warrior who lurched down the stairs, clutching at the wound in his chest.
Following Peruzo’s example, William threw the rifle down and drew Engrin’s sword. His left hand was cold and numb, His right hand trembling as he watched the Rassis hesitate at the top steps. Both he and Peruzo had dispatched the first attackers swiftly, enough to deter the others from succeeding them. But they wouldn’t wait long, and no doubt archers or even the giant must soon appear. William did not wait to see which came first; he practically drove his survivors around the corner. As the last man jumped for his life, arrows ricocheted against the stairs and wall.
‘We cannot defeat them like this,’ William conceded. ‘There is no other choice. We must fall back to where the Bedouins are . . . Maybe together we can stop the Rassis. Maybe we’ll have another chance at . . .’ He paused at the look on his men’s faces.
Even in the fading light, Peruzo could see despair in William’s eyes. ‘We did our best, Captain,’ he said. William made no reply, but waved them further down the steps.
As Jericho led the way again, he stopped short with a shout of alarm. There was warning, consternation and then urgency as more voices entered the fray. Bedouin voices.
William pushed past Orlando and Neil, and stepped around Marco, who had backed up the stairs, sandwiched between the Rassis at the top and the tide of men flooding up from below. He found Jericho with his arms in the air, several swords hovering in front of him. Their owners looked up as William approached. Several dark faces stared at him.
‘You,’ William said and pointed to the youngest of the warriors. ‘You are Mazin’s son.’
At the mention of the name, The young Bedouin nodded and smiled. ‘Mazin,’ he replied and patted his chest. He lowered his sword and strode forward to shake William’s hand.
‘How did you get here?’ William said, all but forgetting the Rassis further up the stairs. Mazin’s son just kept smiling, not understanding a word William was saying. He grinned and pointed to the valley below.
‘Mazin,’ he said again.
William narrowed his eyes as he peered through the waning light. He noticed dark shapes there, more than there had been before. With wagons and something else . . .
‘The cannon?’ William said. It appeared as though Mazin’s son understood this word at least and his smile grew.
‘Captain, they’re coming!’ Peruzo warned as the Rassis charged down the steps under cover of their archers.
The Suwarka pushed past the beleaguered monks with their swords and clubs. As the Rassis rounded the corner, the Suwarka attacked. What they lacked in skill they made up for in freshness and numbers. The Rassis killed several Suwarka, but the Bedouins piled forward and simply pushed the Rassis from the steps. The cultists fell into the chasm below or retreated to the cheers of the monks.
As the first wave of Rassis were struck down, the archers loosed a volley of arrows that fell upon the elated Bedouin. William watched as the brave Arabs tumbled down the side of the mountain or fell to their knees impaled by thick arrow shafts, their cries resounding about the ledge, shocking the Suwarka and piling on the misery for the company. With the Rassis archers holding the top step, their position was little improved.
Mazin’s son spoke quickly to one of the Bedouin warriors, who leapt to the edge of the steps pulling two great flags, one orange and one yellow, from his cloak. He waved them down to the valley below while the Suwarka huddled back against the rock face.
William had only seconds to realize what was happening, Sheikh Fahd’s warning about Sheikh Mazin’s cannon ringing in his ears. ‘Bloody hell!’ he yelled at his men. ‘All of you . . . Get down!’
Flame gushed from each of the guns on the valley floor. A whistling noise ripped through the air, and William closed his eyes. There wasn’t even time enough to pray . . .
The first shot landed below them, a dozen feet away. It exploded harmlessly on the mountainside, shaking the stairs where they knelt. The second fell off-target to the left, not far from the steps that wound their way up to the landing, and its closeness alone would have given William cause for alarm if the third shot hadn’t landed several yards above them. The noise was shattering, shaking them to the bone and pelting them with broken rock and dust. William had his hands over his ears, and feared that he would open his eyes to many casualties about him. To his relief, everyone was stunned but unharmed. Marco looked terrified.
‘The bloody fools will kill us, Captain!’ Peruzo shouted.
William could only agree, yet their views on the salvo’s accuracy were ignored as the Bedouin warrior got to his feet and drew up the flags again. He swept his arms upward three times, and shifted the yellow flag to the left. Then he dropped the flags to the floor and returned to the scant cover of the rock face again.
‘Keep down,’ William shouted. ‘Here comes another salvo . . .’
The cannons spoke again, and three more shots came whistling their way. William heard Brother Neil behind him muttering a prayer, but the monk did not finish it before the stairs shook. This time the cannonade struck the landing above them. The boulders at the lip were blown asunder, tearing apart the enemy archers who hid there. Some were thrown across the landing, their bodies broken. Others lost arms and legs, tossed into the air to fall down the side of the mountain. A body even fell among the Suwarka.
As the dust and smoke cleared, the Bedouin gathered the flags. As he began to signal, an arrow took him in the back and he slumped to the ground. Mazin’s son rushed over, and pulled the flags from his grasp. He waved them above his head, in a direct line, and then ran from the edge, throwing himself down near William.
William covered his head with his hands as a third cannonade rained down on the Rassis above them. Marco screamed out in despair, believing that each explosion would be his last, while Jericho simply laughed hysterically as the ground was littered with rock, pieces of Rassis armour, and lumps of flesh.
And then the bombardment ceased.
Coughing and cheering, the Suwarka rose and charged up the stairway. William had no need to urge his men forward: despite being utterly exhausted, they followed their allies into battle.
VIII
The Suwarka streamed over the top steps and were greeted by several archers. In the chaos that followed the last cannonade, their arrows were not as accurate and only three Suwarka fell. The others rushed over the debris and the dying cultists, and straight into battle.
The Champion of the Traitor was largely unharmed, though his armour had been torn away by one of the explosions, and he sported a wound to his cheek. Yet his strength was no less, and he met the Suwarka with his iron staff, swung in a sweeping arc. The first blow struck two of the Bedouins, staving their skulls and hurling them over the edge. The staff swung back again and caught another, crushing his ribcage. In the confusion the Bedouins had not appreciated this formidable warrior, and without any caution they flung themselves upon him. The giant swung the staff again, crushing skulls, breaking arms and legs, punishing any Suwarka who came near him.
Mazin’s son was among the first to attack. He saw the staff crash down on his men, and rushed out to strike the giant across the arm. The champion saw the sword slash towards him, and the iron rod twirled in his hands to smash Mazin’s son in the face. The blow crushed the front of his skull and the young warrior tottered back to fall into the arms of his tribesmen.
William saw him die, and saw now that the Suwarka assault had faltered as theirs had. Desperately, he urged Brother Jericho and Brother Neil forward with their rifles. They aimed through the gloom and fired. Brother Jericho missed the giant by inches, but Neil’s shot struck him in the belly. The champion staggered back, one hand going to his stomach. He lost his grip on the staff, and one end crashed noisily against the floor. Brother Neil reloaded, aimed . . . but a warrior leapt in and stabbed him through the heart. As Jericho fumbled with his last cartridge, William battled the Rassis away, cutting down one and then another, giving the monk a clear path to the giant, who had since recovered and was raising his staff once more. Jer
icho fired and the shot tore through the giant’s chest, yet still he advanced.
Several Suwarka retreating in the face of the champion could not escape and the iron staff swung out again, a little less deftly than before, yet still with devastating force as Bedouins were crushed and smashed in a flurry of screams. As the carnage thundered closer, William reached down and pulled Brother Neil’s rifle from under his body. He looked up as several Rassis descended on him and William was thrown to the ground. Everything went black and he felt bodies clawing on top of him, expecting a dagger to pierce him at any moment.
When their weight was lifted and William was turned over, Peruzo stood above him, clutching his bloodied sword. ‘Shoot, Captain!’ he shouted desperately.
William pulled the rifle to his shoulder and looked up as the giant lumbered towards them. The iron staff swept round at William’s head, and he fell back, blindly firing the rifle. At hardly a yard, The bullet could not miss, but the shot was fortunate: it flew dead-centre between the blazing eyes. The sash around his forehead exploded in tatters along with the back of the giant’s head. The lumbering warrior tottered, but before he could fall full-length and crush William, he sagged to the ground and lay still, amid Bedouin cheers.
The Suwarka swarmed forward again in a quest of vengeance. And behind them came the Ayaida, the Aquila and the remnants of the Tarabin. The Rassis’ organized ranks fell apart under the onslaught. The sheer weight and momentum of the Bedouins storming the ledge forced the Rassis to fight against the walls or simply brushed them off the mountainside to tumble head over heels down the slopes. Some retreated up the steps, but were pounced upon by blood-hungry Suwarka, who looked to revenge the death of their leader’s son and of all those the Rassis had killed before – generations of terror, centuries of death.
The Hoard of Mhorrer Page 41