In the melee were the remnants of the company, their spirits renewed, clambering to the steps to cut off the Rassis’ only means of escape. When at last they made the second flight of stairs, Peruzo, Jericho and Orlando fought back to back with the Suwarka, using the height to their advantage. William struck down several opponents, lunging with Engrin’s sword at each dragon mask that came his way. The Rassis were desperate now, their defeat inevitable as they fell to the swords of the Bedouins. They forgot their courage, forgot their supremacy, and more importantly their charge: the Hoard of Mhorrer.
Yet despite their disarray, They did not forget to fight for their lives: as the last of the Rassis battled on, they struggled savagely with their enemy. They came again at William and his monks, and many of the Suwarka were killed, Brother Orlando lost a hand, and each man bore a wound. Even Marco.
William’s nephew had rushed in at the last moment as William lost his grip on Engrin’s sword, his severed fingers oiling the handle with fresh blood. It was Marco’s intervention that stopped a cultist from wounding William further. Marco lunged and his sword sank just below the armpit of the frantic warrior. With the sword through his lungs, the cultist swung out and punched Marco in the face, flooring the boy . William recovered and pulled Marco back with his bloodied hand, while with the other he swung his blade and cleaved open the cultist’s skull.
With their opponent slain, William helped up his dazed nephew. Blood leaked from Marco’s broken nose and he could only grunt in pain. William led him over to the steps behind them and out of the battle.
‘My nose hurts,’ he groaned.
‘It’ll mend,’ William promised, trying to contain himself. He was so proud of him it was all he could do to stop himself holding Marco close and laughing deliriously. ‘You’ve done enough. Stay out of sight until the battle ends.’
Marco didn’t argue but kept touching his damaged nose. He looked up for a moment and met his uncle’s eyes.
‘You saved my life,’ William said.
Marco smiled and tears stung his eyes proudly. William slapped a hand on his shoulder, biting down on emotions that had seesawed all over the place, from fear to horror, from murder now to pure love and joy.
Yet the battle was still in progress, and William rejoined it. Before them the ledge was thronged with Bedouin warriors until very few Rassis could be seen, and the final dragon mask was overwhelmed.
‘It’s over,’ William said and felt his arms sag. He looked up at Peruzo, who was splattered in gore. ‘We did it, Peruzo. By God, we won.’
Peruzo looked too exhausted to be pleased, but he simply nodded and slid onto the steps beside Orlando, who was pale with loss of blood. Jericho slumped nearby, falling onto one knee, before subsiding completely. He closed his eyes and uttered a small prayer to whoever might be listening, thanking them for their victory.
The battle was over. The Rassis were destroyed.
IX
Sheikh Mazin’s cries could be heard across the valley. They shrilled through the smoky silence of the battlefield, with not one other matching their despair.
Sheikh Fahd listened in sadness. ‘Whatever chiding he gave Abdullah, he loved his son very dearly,’ he said to William, who thought of Marco.
‘He died very bravely,’ William replied.
‘That will bring little comfort to Mazin,’ Sheikh Fahd said. ‘His last words to him were no doubt scornful.’
William looked across the valley‘We all lost someone today’ he said distantly.
Sheikh Fahd nodded. Now as promised, William had the sheikh carried up the mountain to where their victory had finally been sealed. The litter was carried by the Suwarka and Ayaida, and William supervised it. It was exhausting work, especially through the dark, but a promise was a promise. They would return the sheikh soon after, but not before Fahd saw the site of the Rassis’ last stand.
‘How many of your brave men survived?’ Sheikh Fahd asked.
‘Three, William replied. ‘And my nephew’
‘A grave loss, Captain Saxon,’ Sheikh Fahd remarked. ‘I myself lost over five hundred men.’
‘I am so sorry,’ William murmured. ‘I wish . . .’
Wishing will not bring them back, Captain,’ Sheikh Fahd said gently. ‘But like Mazin’s son, they died bravely Songs will be sung, and stories told.’
Lieutenant Peruzo came over to them. ‘Sir,’ he greeted William and half bowed to Sheikh Fahd.
‘Speak, Lieutenant.’
‘Brother Orlando is in a bad way. The bleeding has stopped, but he is very weak and the journey back to the Ayaida’s camp is long. He might not survive it.’
‘Make sure he is comfortable, and we’ll see what the morning brings,’ William replied. ‘What about Fahd’s doctor?’
‘He is no Filippo, but he is competent. I thank the sheikh for that.’ The lieutenant left the two men to talk alone, and as he walked away Sheikh Mazin’s cries faded.
‘Mazin has come to terms with his grief,’ Sheikh Fahd said. ‘But only for his son’s death. There will be more to grieve for at dawn.’
‘How many were killed, do you think?’ William asked.
‘No one knows, Captain,’ Sheikh Fahd replied. ‘The Tarabin were almost all killed. Galal survived, but who knows how many of the Aquila perished. And there are many Suwarka dead on this mountain.’
William blew out his cheeks. He sighed and tried to take in what had happened. Yesterday, they had suffered grievous casualties. Today, the army was all but in ruins.
‘Was it worth it?’ William asked himself, but out loud.
‘My brother is avenged, Captain,’ Fahd said and shrugged. His smile was lost in the darkness, but William saw his eyes sparkle. ‘The reputation of the Ayaida will become legend. It might even rally the tribes to face Ali.’
‘I am glad,’ William murmured, but it was scant consolation.
‘What of you? Was the sacrifice worth it, Captain Saxon? Did you get what you came for?’ Fahd asked.
William looked over his head towards the shadow of the temple at the peak. ‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘But I will.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Hoard of Mhorrer
I
They climbed the steps, steep and narrow, as the sun left the sky. Daylight was falling behind the turning world as the captain and the lieutenant reached the top. From the summit William looked out across the Sinai, at the hills and mountains in the distance, smeared by the red fire of dusk. It was a miraculous sight, yet both men were too exhausted to truly absorb it.
‘I’m glad you didn’t send me back down there for the gunpowder,’ Peruzo said, breathing out heavily. ‘You would have had to carry me, like Sheikh Fahd.’
‘You look old,’ William teased him.
‘It’s not the years that age a man, Captain, it is experience,’ Peruzo replied, and laughed. ‘How is the hand?’
‘It hurts when I walk,’ William replied and then began laughing too. ‘Adriana will scold me, Peruzo. This was my best hand’
Peruzo started laughing harder, and for those short minutes the rank, the Order and the mission did not matter. They had made the temple at last – against all hope, they had arrived at the storehouse of the Hoard of Mhorrer, achieving something the vampyres had not; that Count Ordrane had not. Nor even the Dar’uka. And it came as a blessed relief to think about something other than the death of most of their friends and colleagues, and the slaughter that lay below.
As their levity declined, both stared up at the temple before them. From the valley floor the building had appeared like a squat lump of rock with a large doorway carved on its face, but on closer inspection it was more intricate. The large double door that William had seen from afar was supported by four massive and equally imposing columns of rock, obelisks many feet thick and made of granite. They were covered by a smoky-grey dust, yet the swirls of the colouring made William think the dust had been applied on purpose.
The doors too were carved
in granite, and smeared with the grey dust, and he wondered why the Rassis had gone to such lengths. In the dim light, and with the sun no longer glaring on its surface, the marbled black seemed in shadow, almost like a night’s sky.
‘A façade,’ he said, and placed his hands on the cool stone, ‘so no one can see what this is.’
‘Can we get inside?’
‘You know, I really haven’t thought about that,’ William admitted. He looked for a lever or a handle, but there was none. The fading light was making it hard to see. William’s hands touched something engraved against the hinge, and he bent closer.
‘Have a look here.’
Peruzo too peered close. ‘A lock?’
‘It doesn’t feel like one,’ William replied. ‘A symbol? I cannot tell in this light.’
‘If Brother Jericho has any sense, he’ll bring a torch from down there,’ Peruzo said.
‘I do hope so, Lieutenant. In a short hour we’ll be completely blind on this mountain.’
‘How long will they be, do you think?’ Peruzo asked as he wandered wearily over to the edge of the landing. He stood with the tips of his boots over the rim and looked down at the Bedouins far below. Already looting had begun of the Rassis fortress, and torches had been lit along the stairways as they sought survivors and friends who had fallen.
‘Depending on whether those camels of Sheikh Fahd can climb the stairs, it could be a good hour or two,’ William replied. ‘Maybe more.’
Peruzo grunted and walked away from the edge. He sat down near the entrance and looked up at William.
‘What’s on your mind, Lieutenant?’
‘If you’ll forgive me, I was only wondering how you must feel now that you’re victorious,’ Peruzo said.
‘I will feel quite pleased if we can get inside this damned temple,’ William said, and sighed as he pushed at the door again.
‘And what about your future in the Order?’ Peruzo was almost pleading.
‘My future?’
‘You once spoke of wanting to leave,’ Peruzo reminded him. ‘Is that still true, now that we’ve climbed this mountain? Now that we have beaten the Rassis?’
William wandered over and sat down near the lieutenant. ‘I’ve given it no more thought, if I’m honest.’
‘May I be candid with you?’ Peruzo asked.
William nodded.
‘Thomas Richmond put those thoughts in your head for a reason, William. He thrived on deception. He set out to poison you with words. You are the Order’s greatest soldier. If you leave, then the Order is no more. Richmond knew this. He wanted to undermine you and your belief. He lied to us. He used us. Forget what he told you,’ Peruzo said.
William sighed. ‘If only I could, but it isn’t just Thomas who put those thoughts there. Adriana dreads every departure. And I’m tired of fighting, Peruzo, aren’t you?’
Peruzo laughed. ‘Of course I am, but then I’m older than you are.’
‘Have you ever thought of leaving the Order? Retiring to a nice cabin in Villeda?’
‘Yes,’ Peruzo admitted. ‘But what would I do? I’m a soldier. I always have been. I would make a terrible farmer. I am no husband. I have no children to look after me.’
‘I’m sure you could find a pretty widow or someone to run their fingers through your beard,’ William joked.
Peruzo laughed with him. ‘Ah, that sounds quite blissful, Captain . . . But I cannot see it being so, he added and looked saddened. ‘I’ve given my life to this cause. I expect that cause will take it soon enough.’
‘Not if you retire after this mission,’ William said. ‘You could train initiates at the monastery. Teach them to be better soldiers.’
Peruzo seemed interested. ‘You think the Secretariat would let me?’
‘For a hero from the Valley of Fire, why not?’ William replied.
II
Someone gave Peruzo a prod with his toe. The lieutenant started to awake and looked around, bleary-eyed. Around him it was oddly bright, and his eyes stung. ‘Was I sleeping?’ he slurred and then adjusted his eyes to find Brother Jericho grinning down at him with a torch in his hand. Marco too carried a torch and was standing by a pair of mules. ‘You took your time,’ Peruzo added and pushed himself up from the floor.
Jericho looked aggrieved. ‘Have you ever tried carrying four heavy kegs of gunpowder up a mountain before?’
‘Fahd gave us donkeys, Uncle,’ Marco explained to William as Jericho helped the lieutenant to his feet. ‘I don’t think those strange creatures with paws for hoofs would make it up the steps.’
‘Camels, Marco, they’re called camels, and I agree, they’re too gangly to climb such steps,’ William said as they untied the kegs. ‘I hope you thanked the sheikh for me’
We did, though I don’t think he understood us,’ Jericho said.
‘I’m sure he understood you perfectly’ William said, laying the kegs on the floor. ‘What about Brother Orlando?’
‘He’s still in a bad way, Captain,’ Jericho replied. ‘Fahd’s physician cauterized his wrist but now he has a fever. We should never have left him in the hands of these Arabs.’
‘The only man left who is even close to the calibre of a field surgeon is Fahd’s physician, Jericho,’ William chided. ‘I realize he is no Filippo, but he has followed the proper course. If the wound is left to fester, then Orlando will most certainly die.’
‘He might die anyway, Uncle,’ Marco said. ‘He looked ill.’
The news of Orlando was desperate, and it was all William could do to stop himself displaying despair. but then they had lost so many men this day that Orlando’s condition was simply numbing. Putting his head down, he lifted a keg to his shoulder and walked between them to the door. ‘Leave Brother Orlando to Fahd’s people – we have a mission to complete,’ he said to them. ‘And we need to find a way to open this door.’
He rested the keg at the entrance and pressed his palms against the rock.
‘You wish to blow it open?’ Peruzo said, taking the torch from Marco. He stood a few feet back from the keg, as if out of respect for what it might do if ignited.
‘It’s an idea,’ William admitted. ‘We do not have a key.’
‘That symbol could be the lock,’ Peruzo suggested.
‘Symbol?’ Jericho asked and walked over. William gestured over to the right near the hinges of the door and Jericho lifted his torch to view the engraving. As he placed the flame near to the rock, the symbol started to glow. Jericho murmured in surprise and brought the torch closer; the movement caused the symbol to burn brighter. ‘Captain, look at this . . .’ he whispered.
They gathered around Jericho as he shone the torch over the lustrous mark: it was the symbol of the Rassis Cult, and it was glowing like iron in a smithy.
‘Incredible,’ Peruzo murmured.
‘Indeed,’ William agreed, but he was not blinded by the miracle. ‘This is the Valley of Fire, and this sect is the Eye of Fire. Maybe it takes fire to unlock the temple . . .’ He took the torch from Jericho’s hand and thrust the tip of it into the symbol. It was an assumption, a wild one at that, but to William it made sense that fire would open the doors.
The engraving was made by a conductive element that quickly grew hot, expanding in the metal lock embedded in the stone. As it expanded, the grooves around the eye ground and pushed against the mechanism, and the stone doors began to groan open.
‘It’s working! It’s working!’ Marco shouted, his voice carrying over the mountain.
They all staggered back, apart from William, who kept the tip of the torch pressed against the lock, the flames licking around it, the heat growing until the rock was now red-hot and the torch was only smouldering.
The doors groaned and creaked, they shifted against the stone ledge, and a low rumble sounded as the edges ground against the floor, scraping stone upon stone. Sparks flew, to scatter across the floor like darting fireflies. The doors tipped over the keg of gunpowder William had propped against th
em, and Jericho ran over, d ragging the keg back in case it got crushed or one of the sparks ignited it.
Still holding the torch, William waited for the doors to open fully. Looking at the awed expressions of the three men facing the doorway, he wondered what they could see.
The doors rumbled to a stop and the groan of hinges ceased. William dropped the spent torch and rounded the door to stand near his friends. ‘The temple . . .’ Peruzo whispered, his hand pointing inside.
William adjusted his gaze and fell silent. The chamber beyond had no windows, no lamps and no torches. It would have been a complete void if it were not for the splintered blue light scattering over the ceiling, the walls, and the steps inside. The light never stayed in one place and flickered about like a full moon trapped on the surface of an agitated pond.
And there was something else: a sound like insects, or maybe a choir of voices in the distance. A humming that rose in anticipation as William took steps towards the entrance. Peruzo put a hand on his shoulder.
‘That sound . . .’ he said, and shook his head. ‘I’ve heard it before’
William nodded.
‘What’s making it?’ Marco asked, his voice as hushed as the others’.
‘Scarimadaen,’ Peruzo replied and his hand slipped from William’s shoulder. ‘Many Scarimadaen.’
‘It’s what we came here for,’ William reminded them and stepped forward into the temple, taking their remaining torch from Marco. Jericho followed, and then Marco, while Peruzo glanced about and entered last, the sound of the fearful chorus rising and rising.
III
Sheikh Fahd looked down at the bodies. ‘When?’ he asked.
The two Ayaida shrugged and then looked apologetic. ‘Not long ago. Within the last hour’ one of them replied.
Sheikh Fahd examined their wounds, the gashes across their chests and the cuts to their faces. ‘You are certain they weren’t killed in battle?’
The Ayaida nodded unanimously. ‘Bassam and Iqbal were part of Sheikh Mazin’s guard,’ they explained. ‘They were here at the cannon during the battle. We think they were sent up the mountain to retrieve his son. They never got there.’
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